I had been born shoved to the margins of the world, sure, but I had volunteered for the pits.

Never. Never ask for what ought to be offered.

Fading light buttered the ridges until shadows licked them clean and they were lost to nightfall.

Pine trees with low limbs spread over fresh snow made a stronger vault for the spirit than pews and pulpits ever could.

I felt like a number of things in me as a writer just clicked.

But I've been at writing long enough now to know that every three or four books I have to start a new direction.

I'm not one of these people who thinks everyone born into privilege should wear sack cloth and ashes. But it's something I wrestle with. I know a lot of people who live below the poverty level and have for a long time and it makes them uneasy to think they'll have to interact with people from different economic levels. Everyone has some sort of load put on them, whatever the circumstances they're born into.