This sadness wasn't a huge part of me--I wasn't remotely depressed--but still, it was like a stone I carried in my pocket. I always knew it was there. [p. 179]

You have to believe in yourself before the world has given you any indication that you should believe in yourself as a writer.

In every generation there is a vault-keeper, one who guards the links fiercely and knows they are more precious than rubies.

My journals were a clearing house - a garbage can. Once I was writing seriously, I understood that this was the stuff that didn't belong in my work.

It is in the thousands of days of trying, failing, sitting, thinking, resisting, dreaming, raveling, unraveling that we are at our most engaged, alert, and alive.

The only graceful thing to do is recognize and embrace what is actually happening, rather than fight against it.

Our pain is a part of who we authentically are.