Not getting bored of my own story and/or character is one of the main struggles I have had with novel writing, and I have put to bed big chunks of work that just didn't sustain my interest.

Large meadows are lovely for picnics and romping, but they are for the lighter feelings. Meadows do not make me want to write.

But the sky is interesting, it changes all the time.

I watched as she added a question mark at the end. Arc, line, space, dot.

We're all getting too smart. Our brains are just getting bigger and bigger, and the world dries up and dies when there's too much thought and not enough heart.

You try, you seem totally nuts, you go underground.

While she cut the mushrooms, she cried more than she had at the grave, the most so far, because she found the saddest thing of all to be the simple truth of her capacity to move on.