Grief, it seemed, was a physical place.

Either things grow and change or they die.

But she had felt since childhod that her life would n ot be ordinary. A moment would come- she would know it when she saw it- and everything would change.

Once, this whole world had been hidden beneath a shallow sea.

This was her life. Not the life she had once dreamed of, not a life her younger self would ever have imagined or desired, but the life she was living, with all its complexities. This was her life, built with care and attention, and it was good.

He'd kept this silence because his own secrets were darker, more hidden, and because he believed that his secrets had created hers.

Writing is always a process of discovery—I never know the end, or even the events on the next page, until they happen. There’s a constant interplay between the imagining and shaping of the story.