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.

Because anyone that can make you feel that bad about yourself is toxic.

It's okay to accept things from people. It doesn't make you weak or helpless.

Maybe marriage, like life, is'nt only about the big moments, whether they be good or bad. Maybe it's all the small things — like being guided slowly forward, surely, day after day — that stretches out to strengthen even the most tenuous bond.

Some people, they can't just move on, you know, mourn and cry and be done with it. Or at least seem to be. But for me... I don't know. I didn't want to fix it, to forget. It wasn't something that was broken. It's just...something that happened. And like that hole, I'm just finding ways, every day, of working around it. Respecting and remembering and getting on at the same time.

Every book teaches me something about my process, and they are all challenging in one way or another.

There were so many levels to the unknown, from safe to dangerous to outright nebulous, scariest of all.