When I sit down to write, I don't think about writing about an idea or a given message. I just try to write a story which is hard enough.

One hand, five homes. A lifetime in a fist.

With children the clock is reset. We forget what came before

Isolation offered its own form of companionship: the reliable silence of her rooms, the steadfast tranquility of the evenings. The promise that she would find things where she put them, that there would be no interruption, no surprise. It greeted her at the end of each day and lay still with her at night.

She is stunned that in this town there are no sidewalks to speak of, no streetlights, no public transportation, no stores for miles at at a time.

The first sentence of a book is a handshake, perhaps an embrace.

You are still young, free.. Do yourself a favor. Before it's too late, without thinking too much about it first, pack a pillow and a blanket and see as much of the world as you can. You will not regret it. One day it will be too late.