Much of my reading time over the last decade and a half has been spent reading aloud to my children. Those children's bedtime rituals of supper, bath, stories, and sleep have been a staple of my life and some of the best, most special times I can remember.

I don't envy men and I certainly wouldn't like to become one now.

If you can't return a favor, pass it on.

The richest most meaningful stories are found in small places: made, carried, crafted, told, and retold by apparently unimportant people.

I could write an entertaining novel about rejection slips, but I fear it would be overly long.

The young women in my classes are feisty and clever and believe, often with the passion of youthful optimism, that feminism is a battle already won. I worry for them - and for my daughters, too.

I bought a selection of short, romantic fiction novels, studied them, decided that I had found a formula and then wrote a book that I figured was the perfect story. Thank goodness it was rejected.