Now, now," my father said. "Let's just get the bags." This was typical. My father, the lone male in our estrogen-heavy household, had always dealt with any kind of emotional situation or conflict by doing something concrete and specific. Discussion of cramps and heavy flow at the breakfast table? He was up and out the door to change oil on one of our cars. Coming home in tears for reasons you just didn't want to discuss? He'd go make you a grilled cheese, which he'd probably end up eating. Family crisis brewing in a public place? Bags. Get the bags.

Nothing happens for ages, and then all the changes come at once.

You can't always get the perfect moment. Sometimes, you just have to do the best you can under the circumstances.

Teaching was great for me, because I got to show people how writing can really change the way you see not only yourself but the world.

She said writting novels was like childbirth: if you truly remembered how awful it got, you'd never do it again.

It all depends on how you choose to live it. It's like forever, always changing.

But something, somehow, had made all these paths converge. You couldn't find it on a checklist, or work it into the equation. It just happened.