That was the one thing she knew now. Some chances came and went, and if you missed them, you could spend the rest of your life standing alone, waiting for an opportunity that had already passed you by.

You will always miss her. There will be days - even years from now - when the missing will be so sharp it will take your breath away. But there will be good days, too, months and years of them. In one way or another you'll be searching for her all your life.

He is a man, and he is afraid. This is not a good combination.

In the sea of grief, there were islands of grace, moments in time when one could remember what was left rather than all that had been lost.

Then he left her there, standing alone, surrounded by word ghosts; things she could have said.

Honestly, when you start talking about genres, you're talking as much about the business side of writing as anything else. Certainly there are elements of reader expectation that play into various genres, and those are important, but it also becomes about packaging, placement, audience....In the end, I'm not a fan of labels. I think the best fiction blurs the boundaries between genres, stretches and breaks them.

Thoughts - even fears - were airy things, formless until you made them solid with your voice and once given that weight, they could crush you.