I'd pretty much given up hope of being published, so I just wrote the book I wanted to read.

Darling girl, blinded by foolish thoughts of love. How to tell her that the hearts of men were not so easily won. If won, rarely kept.

The stretch of years leaves none unmarked: the blissful sense of youthful invincibility peels away and responsibility brings its weight to bear.

She's one of the few people able to look beyond the lines on my face to see the twenty-year-old who lives inside.

I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.

Oh, Grey, no one really likes keeping secrets. The only thing that makes a secret fun is knowing that you weren't supposed to tell it.

While I wasn't certain how I felt about spiritualists, I was certain enough about the type of people who were drawn to them. Only people unhappy in the present seek to know the future.