As a person with terrible handwriting, I love the computer. I've waited all my life for the computer.

The sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.

Writing mirrors the interior self. You know, any book is like the perfect blueprint of the psyche of the author.

If sinners where so unhappy, why would they prefer their suffering? But now I knew why. Without my wounds, who was I?

Many women get involved with a man that you pretty much know isn't suitable and you're kind of breaking your rules, but he's attractive in some unknown way. And then he doesn't even realize what a sacrifice you're making by being with him and he dumps you!

I imagined my soul taking in these words like silicated water in the Petrified Forest, turning my wood to patterned agate. I liked it when my mother shaped me this way. I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hand.

How right that the body changed over time, becoming a gallery of scars, a canvas of experience, a testament to life and one's capacity to endure it.