And the worst thing she had heard were the words he hadn't said, the fact that he hadn't loved her.

Her life was beginning to make sense again, although she couldn’t say she was enjoying it. But her mind was clear, and her heart was not constantly as heavy. Only when she thought about him. But she knew that in time, she’d survive it. She had done it before and would again. Eventually the heart repairs.

Writing is a solitary endeavor, but not a lonely one. When you write, your world is populated by the characters you invent and you feel those people filling your lives.

You could never predict what would happen. There was an element of destiny in everything that one could never account for.

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

.. that terrible feeling that you're not good enough to be loved by the people you love most, and eventually by anyone else.

I did it at night because I loved it. I never did it to make money, as a job. I just did it because I had to.