It's strange how memory gets twisted and pulled like taffy in its retelling, how a single event can mean something different to everyone present.

The worst violence we can do to each other often is psychological, especially in families. I dwell a lot on domestic danger. Thats the backdrop of most of my novels - what kind of damage is done without ever lifting a finger.

I didn’t see the point of judging and analyzing a single moment in someone’s life.

They don't find peace. It's pure bullshit. When something unspeakable happens, or when you do something unspeakable, it changes you. It takes you apart and reassembles you. You are a Frankenstein of circumstance, and the parts never fit back quite right and the life you live is a stolen one. You don't deserve to walk among the living, and you know it.

We can't hold on to anyone or anything, you know. We lose everything except that which we carry within us.

The past is history. The future is a mystery. The present is a gift.

I definitely feel that plot flows from character. I dont believe that you can construct a plot and insert people into it.