All that was left for me was a terrible kind of paralysis, this waiting game, this heartbreak game.

But in the end, fighting for a love that was already gone felt like trying to live in the ruins of a lost city.

She was also incredibly confident, with a way of moving and talking that communicated that she didn't need anyone to tell her she was beautiful or worthwhile.

In Paris, you couldn't really turn around without seeing the result of lovers' bad decisions. An artist given to sexual excess was almost a cliché, but no one seemed to mind. As long as you were making something good or interesting or sensational, you could have as many lovers as you wanted and ruin them all.

Don't tell readers what to think. Let the action speak for itself.

It gave me a sharp kind of sadness to think that no matter how much I loved him and tried to put him back together again, he might stay broken forever.

If I can write one sentence, simple and true every day, I'll be satisfied.