I am ninety. Or ninety-three. One or the other.

With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.

I tend not to think about the reading public at all, or the business, when I'm writing.

They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.

Although there are times I'd give anything to have her back, I'm glad she went first. Losing her was like being cleft down the middle. It was the moment it all ended for me, and I wouldn't have wanted her to go through that.

Gorillas are in danger of being wiped out by the Ebola virus. I feel like we have limited time to get to know them and understand them and they're going to disappear - that's terrifically sad. Wouldn't it be great if we could stop that?

When did I stop being me?