Usually it takes me about nine to 12 months to write a book.

Friendship isn't always sunnyside up.

Maybe it was the angle, but her fawn's eyes, looking up at me, seemed larger than ever. I had to make an effort to keep my balance lest I fall into them.

Amanda took the torn page from Maniac. To her, it was the broken wing of a bird, a pet out in the rain.

Whom do I write for? I write for the story. Each story, it seems to me, knows best how it should be told. As I once put my ear to the railroad track, I listen now for the voice of my story.

I have a curious background for someone who turns out to be a writer.

You occupied my space. But because you were not in my present, when I looked into my future I saw . . . nothing. Isn't that sad? And stupid?