Be tough in the way a blade of grass is: rooted, willing to lean, and at peace with what is around it.

The correctness and quality of what you write do not matter; the act of writing does.

Life is not orderly. No matter how we try to make life so, right in the middle of it we die, lose a leg, fall in love, drop a jar of applesauce. In summer, we work hard to make a tidy garden, bordered by pansies with rows or clumps of columbine, petunias, bleeding hearts. Then we find ourselves longing for the forest, where everything has the appearance of disorder; yet we feel peaceful there.

You'll lose your reader if you are vague, not clear, and not present. We love details, personal connections, stories.

Finally, one just has to shut up, sit down, and write.

We walk through so many myths of each other and ourselves; we are so thankful when someone sees us for who we are and accepts us.

The muscles of writing are not so visible, but they are just as powerful: determination, attention, curiosity, a passionate heart.