Today is only one day in all the days that will ever be.

Worry destroys the ability to write. Ill health is bad in the ratio that it produces worry which attacks your subconscious and destroys your nerves.

Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light.

The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special too.

The hard part about writing a novel is finishing it.

People fall in love, but have to climb out.

Humility is not disgraceful, and carries no loss of true pride.