It's a lot easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.

So I saw that there was only me. There was only me who could worry about what was happening here, inside these walls of my life. Other people had their own worlds to worry about, and in the end, they had to fend for themselves, just like us.

I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves; the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.

It kills me sometimes, how people die.

I find writing extremely difficult. I usually have to drag myself to my desk, mainly because I doubt myself. And it's getting harder because I want to improve with every book.

I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.

Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.