Okay. Enough." I got out of the closet, brushing myself off, then turned around to face her. "This is happening. So you need to go downstairs, face your fears, and make the best of it, and everything will be okay." She narrowed her eyes at me. "When did you suddenly become so positive?" "Just get out of there.

But those words were only the middle of the story. There was a beginning here, too.

I don't believe in failure, because simply by saying you've failed, you've admitted you attempted. And anyone who attempts is not a failure. Those who truly fail in my eyes are the ones who never try at all. The ones who sit on the couch and whine and moan and wait for the world to change for them.

...You can't unlearn something, even if you want to. You know what you know.

It's harder that in looks," I told him when I finally got back in the car. "Most things are.

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.

See for me, it’s immediate. Silence is so freaking loud.' This seemed either deep or deeply oxymoronic. I wasn’t sure which.