It's strange, isn't it, how the idea of belonging to someone can sound so great? It can be comforting, the way it makes things decided. We like the thought of being held, until it's too tight. We like that certainty, until it means there's no way out. And we like being his, until we realize we're not ours anymore.

Then again, what are liars if not great magicians?

It's shocking the things we call love.

Most of our parents wanted the best for us, I knew, but we also wanted the best for them.

All of my books come from something that I happen to be working out at a given point in my life. Its kind of self-therapy.

The magic of purpose and of love in its purest form. Not televison love, with its glare and hollow and sequined glint; not sex and allure, all high shoes and high drama, everything both too small and in too much excess, but just love. Love like rain, like the smell of a tangerine, like a surprise found in your pocket.

Maybe it was wrong, or maybe impossible, but I wanted the truth to be one thing. One solid thing.