She wanted nothing more than someone to miss, to touch, with whom to speak like a child, with whom to be a child.

To feel alone is to be alone.

I hated myself for going, why couldn't I be the kind of person who stays?

People around the world were moving from one place to another. No one was staying.

We aren’t exactly emptying the oceans; it’s more like clear-cutting a forest with thousands of species to create massive fields with one type of soybean.

Family are the people who must make you feel ashamed when you are deserving of shame.

My test for writing is always, is this fun or does it feel like a job? Is it moving me? Or am I just fulfilling my own expectations - or even worse, somebody else's?