I love that blurry place where life’s transitions are made without you even knowing it.

A part of her wanted to tell him she still loved him, and that even though this love was hopeless and long over, it still consumed her year after year. It was a tangled hairball of feelings and she couldn't pull forth any one strand.

I sometimes think the stronger you feel about someone, the harder it is to picture their face when you are away from them.

I do believe that characters in novels belong to their writers and their readers pretty equally. I've learned a lot of things about the characters I write from people who read about them. Readers expand them in ways I don't think of and take them to places I can't go.

She got tired of herself. She got tired of not being able to say what she wanted or do what she wanted or even want what she wanted.

He no longer represented someday a possibility. He represented a road not taken a road that suddenly shot so far into the distance she couldn’t see it anymore.

What can I say? I'm obsessed. And as we all know obsessed girls can't be held responsible for our actions.