I wanted to be somewhere else ... Someplace where the sight of me sobbing would tie me to no one and no one to me.

It passed, though. That was the bad thing. It always passed.

Just me and the future, finally together. Now there was a happy ending I could believe in.

If you could just be nice, then you wouldn't have to worry about arguments at all. but being nice wasn't as easy as it seemed, especially when the rest of the world could be so mean.

I don't talk about my books while I'm writing them: not even my husband knows what a novel's about until it's done.

It's always been hard to call myself a writer. I think a part of me still thinks it's too good to be true.

If you're not getting hurt, you're not riding hard enough.