As writers we must, from our very opening sentence, speak with authority to our readers.

I have no useful theories about love and marriage.

Her cake is a failure, but she is loved anyway. She is loved, she thinks, in more or less the way the gifts will be appreciated: because they have been given with good intentions , because they exist, because they are part of a world in which one wants what one gets.

She is overtaken by a sensation of unbeing. There is no other word for it.

Language in fiction is made up of equal parts meaning and music. The sentences should have rhythm and cadence, they should engage and delight the inner ear.

People are more than you think they are. And they're less, as well. The trick lies in negotiating your way between the two.

. . . he felt himself entering a moment so real he could only run toward it, shouting.