Nothing smelled so good or danced so well as a birch fire.
I love to read. But I loved to read a lot longer than I started to love writing.
Death is very mysterious to us. One moment someone is there with us, and the next moment they're not.
It's like the smarter you are, the more things can scare you.
Since my first novel was rescued from a slush pile, it makes me sad that most publishing houses no longer accept unsolicited manuscripts. Nor are many willing to take chances on novels that are not deemed immediately "marketable."
Lord, let me heed the angels you put in my path.