It is a remarkable question- Do all the wonderful things happen when we are not aware of them?

All writers start with a layer of truth, don't they? If not, their stories would be nothing but spools of cotton candy, a fleeting taste wrapped around nothing but air.

My brother believed in all sorts of mythical creatures: pixies, dragons, werewolves, honest men.

The act of writing... is the act of trying to understand why my opinion is what it is. And ultimately, I think that's the same experience the reader has when they pick up one of my books.

It's choice that makes us human.

[I] don't think I was trying to kill myself. I just wanted to hurt, and understand exactly whay I was hurting. This made sense: you cut, you felt pain, period.

but if I've learned anything, it's that we don't know half of what we think we do. And we know ourselves least of all.