I got a rejection letter from an editor at HarperCollins, who included a report from his professional reader. This report shredded my first-born novel, laughed at my phrasing, twirled my lacy pretensions around and gobbed into the seething mosh pit of my stolen clichés. As I read the report, the world became very quiet and stopped rotating. What poisoned me was the fact that the report's criticisms were all absolutely true. The sound of my landlady digging in the garden got the world moving again. I slipped the letter into the trash... knowing I'd remember every word.

I'm not from a milieu where high-register language or philosophical ideas were welcome.

Who was blowing on the nape of my neck?

I believe death is only a door. One closes, and another opens. If I were to imagine heaven, I would imagine a door opening. And he would be waiting for me there.

maybe the meaning of life lies in looking for it

Lying's wrong, but when the world spins backwards, a small wrong may be a big right.

Dreams are all I have ever truly owned.