People are icebergs. So much of us is underneath.

It doesn't matter that I can't remember the details any longer: death happened to her. Death happens to all of us.

When I was young, you know, the first foreign editions that would come in of anything of mine, I'd sit there and look at them as these strange and wonderful artifacts.

She was also an adult, and when adults fight children, adults always win.

We do what we do, because of who we are. If we did otherwise, we would not be ourselves.

I think that the biggest, quickest and hardest thing to learn for a writer is that what we think of as the unchanging verities of story are a load of bollocks. Absolute rubbish. There are no unchanging verities.

It's a given that we exist in a world where we have to live in continuity every day; no one is immune to that, in life or romance novels. By the same token, it's not something I find terribly important.