Her hand touched me at the wrist. "If I gave you my life, you would drop it. Wouldn't you?" I didn't say anything.

There's a lot of thievery involved in writing. You're breaking into other people's spaces and other people's stories.

Right now, I have no idea what I will write or if I will write again.

I thought I was being loved because I was being altered.

A man in a desert can hold absence in his cupped hands knowing it is something more than water. There is a plant whose heart, if one cuts it out is replaced with fluid containing herbal goodness. Every morning one can drink the liquid amount of the missing heart.

I don't see novels ending with any real sense of closure.

From this point on, she whispered, we will either find or lose our souls.