I do not at all understand the mystery of grace - only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.

Plot springs from character... I've always sort of believed that these people inside me- these characters- know who they are and what they're about and what happens, and they need me to help get it down on paper because they don't type.

If you fixate on the big picture, the whole shebang, the overview, you miss the stitching.

Write regularly, whether you feel like writing or not, and whether you think what you're writing is any good or not.

I wish grace and healing were more abracadabra kind of things. Also, that delicate silver bells would ring to announce grace's arrival. But no, it's clog and slog and scootch, on the floor, in the silence, in the dark.

The stuff I write about is pretty universal, the things my closest friends and I talk about - our anxiety about being here on this scary planet, during these scary times, as vulnerable as kittens, having lost so many people I couldn't live without.

Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor.