I think there must be a place inside of us where dreams go and wait their turn.

I didn't know then what I wanted, but the ache for it was palpable.

I think many people need, even require, a narrative version of their life. I seem to be one of them. Writing memoir is, in some ways, a work of wholeness.

The time to assert one's right is when it's denied!

And I was struck all at once how life was out there going through its regular courses, and I was suspended, waiting, caught in a terrible crevice between living my life and not living it.

I'd forgotten how that sort of craving felt, how it rose suddenly and loudly from the pit of my stomach like a flock of startle birds, then floated back down in the slow, beguiling way of feathers.

It is the peculiar nature of the world to go on spinning no matter what sort of heartbreak is happening.