In this life we love who we love. There were some stories in which facts were very nearly irrelevant.

Writing is a job, a talent, but it's also the place to go in your head. It is the imaginary friend you drink your tea with in the afternoon.

There was no time for kissing but she wanted him to know that in the future there would be. A kiss in so much loneliness was like a hand pulling you up out of the water, scooping you up from a place of drowning and into the reckless abundance of air. A kiss, another kiss.

Guns are dangerous and damaging even when no one gets shot. They really do loom.

There are, of course, people who didn't create the trouble they're in, but lots of them do.

My writing process has changed because it's harder to find uninterrupted time.

Maybe that was the definition of life everlasting: the belief that the next generation would carry your work forward.