When you are young, hone your craft and write shorter pieces instead of novels, because it's really hard to finish a novel.

Never sit staring at a blank page or screen. If you find yourself stuck, write. Write about the scene you're trying to write. Writing about is easier than writing, and chances are, it will give you your way in.

I miss sunrise even more. The green scent of dawn in the forest? The color blushing back into the world, different every day.

Being near her was like balancing on a tipping world, trying to keep your footing as the ground wanted to roll you forward, hurl you into a spiral from which there was no recovery, only impact, and it was a longed-for impact, a sweet and beckoning collision.

There is the past, and there is the future. The present is never more than the single second dividing one from the other. We live poised on that second as it's hurtling forward-toward what?

It was as if she had emitted a pulse of radiation that reached him even where he stood, and it bathed him and it burned him.

I'm going to be the scariest grandma in the world.