I write what I'd like to read and just hope that, along the way, others might like to read them, too.

She says there are stories everywhere and that people who wait for the right one to come along before setting pen to paper end up with very empty pages.

I want to be independent. To meet interesting people. ... I just mean new people with clever things to say. Things I've never heard before. I want to be free. Open to whatever adventure comes along and sweeps me off my feet.

She'd slept terribly the night before. The room, the bed, were both comfortable enough, but she'd been plagued with strange dreams, the sort that lingered upon waking but slithered away from memory as she tried to grasp them. Only the tendrils of discomfort remained.

...She's understood the power of stories. Their magical ability to refill the wounded part of people.

Memory is a cruel mistress with whom we all must learn to dance.

Mother didn't understand that children aren't frightened by stories; that their lives are full of far more frightening things than those contained in fairy tales.