It was a blessing and also a curse of handwritten letters that unlike email you couldn’t obsessively reread what you’d written after you’d sent it. You couldn’t attempt to un-send it. Once you’d sent it it was gone. It was an object that no longer belonged to you but belonged to your recipient to do with what he would. You tended to remember the feeling of what you’d said more than the words. You gave to object away and left yourself with the memory. That was what it was to give.

Blood may be thicker than water, but friendship is thicker than both.

She knew whose love she doubted. It wasn't her parents' and it wasn't her friends: It was her own.

All I could think to do was love her. That's all a person can do.

I was supposed to write a romantic comedy, but my characters broke up.

I killed her once and died for her many times

Love is like war; easy to begin, hard to end.