I thought I was clever enough to write as well as these people and I didn't realize that there is something called originality and your own voice.

Secrets are kept from children, a lid on top of the soup kettle, so they do not boil over with too much truth.

From what I have observed, when the anesthesia of love wears off, there is always the pain of consequences. You don't have to be stupid to marry the wrong man.

I saw what I had been fighting for: It was for me, a scared child, who had run away a long time ago to what I had imagined was a safer place. And hiding in this place, behind my invisible barriers, I knew what lay on the other side: Her side attacks. Her secret weapons. Her uncanny ability to find my weakest spots. But in the brief instant that I had peered over the barriers I could finally see what was finally there: an old woman, a wok for her armor, a knitting needle for her sword, getting a little crabby as she waited patiently for her daughter to invite her in.

Her education only made her unhappy thinking about it - that no matter how much she changed her life, she could not change the world that surrounded her.

Who knows where inspiration comes from. Perhaps it arises from desperation. Perhaps it comes from the flukes of the universe, the kindness of the muses.

If she doesn't speak, she is making a choice. If she doesn't try, she can lose her chance forever. -An-mei