The dead leave their shadows, an echo of the space within which once they lived. They haunt us, never fading or growing older as we do. The loss we grieve is not just their futures but our own.

One cannot always marry the person one loves.

What we leave behind in this life is the memory of who we were and what we did. An imprint, no more.

Pas a pas, se va luenh. Step by step, we make our way.

I am not a fan of historical fiction that is sloppy in its research or is dishonest about the real history.

Usually I decide on what it is I'm writing next by the books I'm reading.

Love - true love - is a precious thing. It is painful, uncomfortable, makes fools of us all, but it is what breathes meaning and color and purpose into our lives.