Could you really love someone who was capable of falling in love with somebody else?

Many of my books come from what if questions that I can't answer, things that I'm worried about as either a woman, a wife, a mom, an American.

When your mother is made out of your dreams, anything real is bound to disappoint you.

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

Mistakes are something that happen by accident. You didn't walk out the door one morning and fall into some guy's bed. You thought about it, for a while. You made that choice.

I know that the first person I kissed won't be nearly as important as the last person I kiss.

The first question she was asked was What do you do? as if that were enough to define you. Nobody ever asked you who you really were, because that changed. You might be a judge or a mother or a dreamer. You might be a loner or a visionary or a pessimist. You might be the victim, and you might be the bully. You could be the parent, and also the child. You might wond one day and heal the next.