I suppose at some point, we all have to decide which memories - real or otherwise - to hold on to, and which ones to let go.

I had wanted to live forever as a gypsy girl; I had wanted to live forever as a child, tumbling down a rabbit hole. I had been granted both wishes, only to find immortality was not what it had promised to be; instead of a passport to the future, it was a yoke that bound me to the past.

Unlike men, women got less sentimental as we aged, I was discovering.

Why, then, did I always feel as if his happiness was my responsibility? It wasn't fair for him to burden me with that. It had never been fair.

I suppose at some point, we all have to decide which memories - real or otherwise - to hold on to, and which ones to let go.

When you write things down, they sometimes take you places you hadn't planned.

I like to imagine the "what ifs" of history.