I began to look at all events and all things as relevant, an opportunity to take or avoid.

Fate is shaped half by expectation, half by inattention.

I didn't fear failure. I expected failure.

I felt like a rich vagabond who had passed through the world paving my way with gold fairy dust, then realizing too late that the path disintegrated as soon as I passed over it.

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.

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.

how can the world in all its chaos come up with so many coincidences, so many similarities and exact opposites?