Wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. The poem tells me it’s no big deal that I’m not like Snow. I can be another thing; I’m meant to be another thing.

Home is where your teapots are.

There were days when he touched the tip of her nose and it was enough, a miracle of plenty.

That's the ideal meeting...once upon a time, only once, unexpectedly, then never again.

I dont have a style. I just try to write what the story demands.

Imagine having a mother who worries that you read too much. The question is, what is it that's supposed to happen to people who read too much? How can you tell when someone's crossed the line.

I think, basically, what I'm good for is reading - a lot.