Losing Chloe had been like reading a wonderfulook only to realize that all the pages past a certain point were blank.

I think I have sort of gravitated toward issues that I don't know the answers to, because that's what's more interesting for me to write.

Maybe I was naïve to think that silence was implicit complacence, instead of a festering question. Maybe I was silly to believe that friends owed each other anything.

I only just found you, I can't lose you now

In my family, we seem to have a tortured history of not saying what we ought to and not meaning what we do.

I don't base my books on my life (thank goodness) and I don't pick the topic first. In fact, the topic picks me - via a question I can't answer as a mom, a wife, a woman, an American. I find myself wondering "What if..." and it blossoms into a whole novel.

I realized it was like looking into the sun—you shouldn't do it, because you'd turn your face away and be blind to everything else.