In the end, though, I did not kill my sister. She did it all on her own. Or at least this is what I tell myself.

I learn from my own daughter that you don’t have to be awake to cry.

There was no black or white. Someone who had been good her entire life could, in fact, do something evil. People were just as capable of committing murder, under the right circumstances, as any monster.

you can love a person and still hate the decisions they've made, can't you?

Fiction is like that, once it is released into the world: contagious, persistent. Like the contents of Pandora's box, a story that's freely given can't be contained anymore. It becomes infectious, spreading from the person who created it to the person who listens, and passes it on.

I have the most devoted and loyal following. I could probably type up my grocery list and they'd all want to read it. I love that they're willing to let me go wherever I need to go as an author, and they're happy to come along for the ride as the reader.

Since it had gotten so quiet in the room that you could hear the sound of your own doubts.