We didn't talk about our scars, the ones you could see and the ones you couldn't.

I am never happy when I finish a book. I always start feeling good, and then I get to about Page 75 and start losing momentum - and I kind of pull it together at the end, but by then I think it's just all over. It's become almost a running joke among my agent and my editor - I always say that, so they don't take me seriously anymore.

Everyone laughed, and just like that, the conversation shifted, jumping to another topic. It was fast and furious, the talking, the emotions, the back-and-forth and forth-and-back. I realized that if I tried to focus on it too much, I got overwhelmed. So I just decided to relax into it, bumpy and crazy as it might be, and try for once to just go along for the ride.

And for one second, it was like I could feel the timing clicking together, finally pieces falling into place.

There's this other half of him I don't know of, it's like he is trying to keep it a secret... if he would just let me inside so I can help.

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

All we had was her room, her stories, and the quiet that settled in as we tried in vain to spread ourselves out and fill the space she'd left behind.