You know the minute you stop thinking about it, it'll happen.

You bought me some forks. And knives. And spoons. Because you love me!

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.

As far as I was concerned, we'd come to a draw: I hadn't wanted to come, and she didn't want me to leave. We were even. But I knew my mother wouldn't see it that way. Lately, we didn't seem to see anything the same.

I've found in my own life that if my writing isn't going well, not much else will. It is the one constant, the key to everything else.

I had to wonder whether it was possible that this wasn’t already decided for me, and if maybe, just maybe, this was my one last chance to try and prove it. There was no way to know. There never is. But I reached out and took it anyway.

Everyone has their weak spot. The one thing that, despite your best efforts, will always bring you to your knees, regardless of how strong you are otherwise.