Sometimes when reading aloud to my husband, I'll start crying. It completely stuns me. As if the words in my body and on the page - in relation to each other - are cocooned against my own feelings about what I'm writing until they're loosed in the air and become their own. Then I realize what I may or may not have done.

Weakness, like not being able to bury the past. Weakness, like not giving up hope when you know you should.

She knows that whispers can be useful. Sometimes they contain real information. But usually they're fairy tales and lies. This is the worst kind of whisper, the kind that draws you in, gives you hope.

You learn to exploit genre for the more important things - to my mind - like story, character, image, language.

Writers aren't born properly labeled so it is hard to know one when one appears.

I prefer true over happy now.

I feel too much. It's like being drummed to death from within. You know?