She's not like anyone I've ever seen before. When I'm not with her, I want to be. And when she opens the book and I see her face, I can barely remember what I'm supposed to say, much less how to speak at all." I test the words on my tongue. "I think I might be in love with her. But how can I really know, since the only love I've ever experienced was written for me?

You can be strapped to the most stable chair and still feel the world give way beneath you.

The question I hate the most is "How did you DO it - write novels and raise your children simultaneously!" I mean, do MALE authors get asked that??

You couldn't have strength without weakness, you couldn't have light without dark, you couldn't have love without loss

I think grief is like a really ugly couch. It never goes away. You can decorate around it; you can slap a doily on top of it; you can push it to the corner of the room-but eventually, you learn to live with it.

What being home-schooled has taught me, more than anything, is what a waste of a life high school is.

And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but the truth in masquerade.