I read "The Group" by Mary McCarthy. It had tons of sex in it, or so I thought at the time.

I wrote to find beauty and purpose, to know that love is possible and lasting and real.... Once I got to my desk, once I started writing, I still believed anything was possible.

Some things you cannot wish away or think away. They become part of you when you remember them.

I wept to think that life went on even when so much had been lost, that rain still fell and myrtle grew between the rocks.

But what we are given is taken as well, so that we know God's glory comes to us from His will alone.

It's not finding what's lost, it's understanding what you've found.

What else is there to write about than love and loss?