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.

That's what love is. It's some power greater than you and me, that draws us to one special person

anyone can understand anything. You just have to know how to present your information.

People don’t just disappear. There’s always a reason, or an enemy with a grudge. There’s always a loose thread that starts to unravel.

I would figure out, later, how to explain to my boss that, for me, Delia will never be a story, but a happy ending.

On the surface, we're polar opposites. Under the skin, though, we're the same: people think they know what they're getting, and they're always wrong.

Having a fantasy come true doesn't always mean it will be permanent.