The writing I tend to think of as 'good' is good because it's mysterious.

Language is the ticket to plot and character, after all, because both are built out of language.

But what I kept wondering about is this: that first second when she felt her skirt burning, what did she think? Before she knew it was candles, did she think she'd done it herself? With the amazing turns of her hips, and the warmth of the music inside her, did she believe, for even one glorious second, that her passion had arrived?

I didn’t mind the quiet stretches. It was like we were trying out the idea of being side by side.

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

Many kids, it seemed, would find out that their parents were flawed, messed-up people later in life, and I didn't appreciate getting to know it all so strong and early.

It is so often surprising, who rescues you at your lowest moments.