I'm never overwhelmed or under it either; just nicely whelmed. I'm OK. Nothing spectacular but sometimes special. I look in the mirror and see this medium average person. A little tired, a little sad, but not falling apart.

She needed to talk, she needed to cry, she needed to vent all her frustrations and disappointments.

Love can change us beyond recognition, we become love-sick, soft-eyed jelly-bellied fools.

Love is not a theme. It's an atmosphere, a mood.

I always want my books to reach a positive point in the end.

I write human stories. I write about people. Not as a product of their environment. But from the stance that everybody is made of the same thing.

Most of all she loved that when she hugged him her head would rest neatly just below his chin, where she could feel his breath lightly blowing her hair and tickling her head.