It is so hard trying to say what you mean.

It's impossible to stall a Lizzie.

I think that what I do is a form of pathetic fallacy, the literary trope in which nature is in sympathy with the mood of the story. I connect the physical setting and props in the story to the emotional state of the characters.

I sometimes think young people are not given nearly enough credit for their ability to appreciate literary flourish.

God knows what I thought! Your brain does amazing acrobatics when it doesn't want to believe something.

But a part of me lies buried in lace and roses on a riverbank in France-a part of me is broken off forever. A part of me will be unflyable, stuck in the climb.

Hope is treacherous, but how can you live without it?