But this wealth of information produced little or no insight.

Sometimes the things presented to us as choices aren't choices at all.

I write about rats because they scare the hell out of me. I think we tend to write out our phobias.

Kindle, isn’t it?” the waitress asked. “I got one for Christmas, and I love it. I’m reading my way through all of Jodi Picoult’s books.” “Oh, probably not all of them,” Wesley said. “Huh? Why not?” “She’s probably got another one done already. That’s all I meant.” “And James Patterson’s probably written one since he got up this morning!” she said, and went off chortling.

Explanations are such cheap poetry.

Life turns on a dime. Sometimes towards us, but more often it spins away, flirting and flashing as it goes: so long, honey, it was good while it lasted, wasn’t it?

When you write, you want to get rid of the world, don’t you? Of course you do. When you’re writing, you’re creating your own worlds.