Everybody's damaged by something.

I think I know what it's like to have a family that the outside world sees as peculiar or lacking.

When people write to me with stories, they are never ones that work for me. There's something mysterious about which ones catch you.

The sound of the pages turning was the sound of magic. The dry liquid feel of paper under fingertips was what magic felt like.

I'm really not one of these procrastinators who cleans the house in order to put off writing, but life gets in the way.

At the door, there was one of those moment when two people realize that they like each other more than they know each other. This is nicer than the opposite situation, but more awkward. You try to remember the protocol for touching. You hate to gush, or presume to much, yet you are unwilling to let the moment pass without without some gesture

I've been writing full-time since I was 23.