I'm at the point where going forward is easier than going back.

No one knows how to write a novel until it's been written

That's the way love sounds, my mother told me. You think it should feel like honey, but instead it cuts like a knife.

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.

The moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep.

I don't think I make much of a distinction between the 'real' and the 'fantastic.' They both seem to be threads in the same cloth as far as I'm concerned.

Love ambushed you, it lay in wait, dormant for days or years. It was the red thread, the peach stone, the kiss, the forgiveness. It came after you, it escaped you, it was invisible, it was everything.