Every fairy tale had a bloody lining. Every one had teeth and claws.

And then I understood that she had no idea what she'd done to my family. She thought love and hatred were equal.

Every time I finish a book, I forget everything I learned writing it - the information just disappears out of my head

I wrote to find beauty and purpose, to know that love is possible and lasting and real, to see day lilies and swimming pools, loyalty and devotion, even though my eyes were closed, and all that surrounded me was a darkened room. I wrote because that was who I was at the core, and if I was too damaged to walk around the block, I was lucky all the same. Once I got to my desk, once I started writing, I still believed anything was possible.

Ironically, now that my children are older and gone quite a bit, I find it harder to work when they're not around. Too much free time!

The original fairy tale was about the youngest sister going into a room in the castle and finding all the bodies of the wives that came before her - she is confronted with truth, thinking about how often we think we know people and we really don't.

Holding a tear back makes them drain upward, higher and higher, until one day your head just explodes and you're left with a stub of a neck and nothing more.