As a girl, I used to zip myself into a snowsuit, fall into the deepest snowdrift I could find and sweep my arms and legs into the powder, making snow angels that would crumble within minutes of their genesis. Despite their rapid disappearance, something about these frozen, evanescent angels has stayed with me ever since.

One thing that I don't ever want to do is write something I don't love.

I taught myself to write in order to understand who I was and so yes, writing was an act of self-actualization in the beginning.

Stories of a mythical angel paradise called an Angelopolis are like Peter Pan's Never Never Land.

I don't think there are actually any theologians practicing angelology or studying angels anymore, but it's definitely in a lot of religious literature. It's still out there, and people are still interested. Even in the more secular way, books about angels are everywhere.

If there are too many cooks in the kitchen, the dish is not going to work out.

I was fifteen then, too young to fall in-love. Or maybe it is only then, with dew of childhood still in my eyes, that I was capable of such love. I will never know, of course.