And every last one of us can do better than give up.

My mother's last word to me clanks inside me like an iron bell that someone beats at dinnertime: love, love, love, love, love.

But if I could go back in time, I wouldn't do a single thing differently. What if all those things I did were the things that got me here?

You can't replicate walking 94 days through the wilderness by yourself with a really heavy pack until you do it.

People do support themselves as artists and writers, so there's no need to be all doom and gloom about it. You just have to push forward. You have to follow your vision and hope for the best. You have to write for love.

Healing is a small and ordinary and very burnt thing. And it's one thing and one thing only: it's doing what you have to do.

I've learned so much as both a writer and a human.