I think people face that in any artistic field, this idea of: oh, I could do that, if I had the time.

Maybe some people just aren't meant to be in our lives forever. Maybe some people are just passing through.

What’s ready? Was Steinback ready? Hemingway? Shakespeare? Dickens? Jane Austen? They just did it, didn’t they?

I don't want to have to give up me, in order to be his.

Somebody once said to me that photography and writing don't get respect because people think that they can do it, too.

I'm surprisingly practical in much of my life, but not when it comes to my shoes.

Feelings aren't sensible. Sometimes you fall in love with people who don't make sense. And the ones who do make sense turn out to be the wrong ones.