His words had tossed the book that was her life into the air and the pages had been blown into disarray, could never be put back together to tell the same story.

A twinge at the edge of her lips and she continued, the soft, slow lilt of recitation: "Ancient walls that sing the distant hours.

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.

Some say I'm an overnight success. Well, that was a very long night that lasted about 10 years. But while I do, of course, now feel the pressure having had books that have been very successful, I just know I have to concentrate on writing for myself. I can't worry about genres or markets or what might be commercial or not. That never works.

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.

Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down, before they knew their endings.

Thinking of nothing. Trying to think of nothing. Thinking of everything.