Writing is an extreme privilege but it's also a gift. It's a gift to yourself and it's a gift of giving a story to someone.

In [writing] fiction, every sentence is its own reward.

For all these years I kept my mouth closed so selfish desires would not fall out. And because I remained quiet for so long now my daughter does not hear me... All these years I kept my true nature hidden, running along like a small shadow so nobody could catch me. And because I moved so secretly now my daughter does not see me... We are lost, she and I, unseen and not seeing; unheard and not hearing, unknown by others.

I did not lose myself all at once.

The muse appears at the point in my writing when I sense a subtle shift, a nudge to move over, and everything cracks open, the writing is freed, the lanuage is full, resources are plentiful, ideas pour forth, and to be frank, some of these ideas surprise me. It seems as thought the universe is my friend and is helping me write, its hand over mine.

It was a distorted form of inverse logic: If hopes never come true, then hope for what you don't want.

Your life is what you see in front of you. -An-mei