Rejection is a cancer, Edie. It eats away at a person.

It is a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future; moments that should have been allowed to be evaporate into the past; should exist only in memories, glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down.

You make a life out of what you have, not what you're missing.

Cassandra's grandmother smiled then, only it wasn't a happy smile. Cassandra thought she knew how it felt to smile like that. She often did so herself when her mother promised her something she really wanted but knew might not happen.

But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .

People might think writing is a hard business, but it's nowhere near acting.

Ah, well. Life's too short for moderation, wouldn't you say?