Time is what keeps things from happening all at once.

She used to cry roughly three times a year. Now she seemed to cry three times before breakfast. Could that be considered progress?

Maybe the truth is, there's a little bit of loser in all of us. Being happy isn't having everything in your life be perfect. Maybe it's about stringing together all the little things.

Tibby cried into her soup when it finally came. "I'm scared... ," she told it. The carrots and peas made no reply, but she felt better for having told them.

It took the real thing to show you the size of your delusions.

She thought she was independent and strong, but she got one small taste of love and she was hungrier than anyone. She was ravenous.

To write a story, I think you really have to open yourself up to the world.