Home wasn't a set house, or a single town on a map. It was wherever the people who loved you were, whenever you were together.

This was how I was dealing with everyone and everything lately, taking the good when it came, and the bad the same way, knowing each would pass in its own time.

Odd how it was so easy for a stranger to assume such familiarity. Especially when those who were supposed to know you best often didn't, not at all.

I was tired of hanging on, taking the torn pieces to make something whole with them.

What do you do when you finally hear everything you've always thought said aloud?

My agent is so totally honest, which is just what every writer needs. She won't let me sell a crappy book, even if I want to.

I think the most important thing is just to write. It sounds so simple, but sometimes it's not. You can get so distracted - -by having to work other jobs, or what other people have to say about your writing - -but the one thing that really matters is that you just keep going, especially when you're working on a novel. It's so easy to get discouraged and give up.