We were a different kind of Christian, the quiet, reasonable kind, a breed embarrassed by the mention of miracles.

My goal was just to tell the unlikely story in a way that would feel as convincing as possible.

It's really hard to get a book published, even a good book, but the better the book is the better chance it has of eventually catching someone's attention.

It requires a certain kind of bravery, I suppose, to choose the status quo. There's a certain boldness to inaction.

I really believe that fiction functions best when stories are allowed to develop in an organic way, so I didn't set out to deliver a specific message.

Nothing has happened to me out of the closet that was anywhere near as dangerous as being closeted.

With a little persuasion, any familiar thing can turn abnormal in the mind. Here's a thought experiment. Consider this brutal bit of magic. A human grows a second human in a space inside her belly; she grows a second heart and a second brain, second eyes and second limbs, a complete set of second body parts as if for use as spares, and then, after almost a year, she expels that second screaming being out of her belly and into the world, alive. Bizarre, isn't it?