I started realising that the themes running through all of my novels were really haunting and obsessing me about my own life.

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

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.

I did want to feel like life's all of one piece.

We can't protect ourselves from pain and heartache.

It's not gender-specific, but I do think it's women who tend to start having that sort of little whispering voice of "I want more here" and "I want more for my family."

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]