He was looking at me, jsut as I'd thought he would be, but like Bert's, his light was not what I expected. No pity, no sadness: nothing had changed. I realized all the times I'd felt people stare at me, their faces had been pictures, abstracts. None of them were mirrors, able to reflect back the expression I thought one I wore, the feelings only I felt.

Who knew three dots could make such a difference? Like everything else, a love or a wish or whatever, it was all in the way you read it.

Maybe I'd just figured out there were some things you were better off not knowing

I think part of the problem sometimes is that there's so much happening in my books, to whittle it down into a single script is hard.

It was like that part of my life, was just gone. It was almost too easy, for something I once thought had meant everything.

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.

I think I'm too lazy a writer to do something like historical fiction. You have to do so much research. I just write what I know.