There in the center of that silence was not eternity but the death of time and a loneliness so profound the word itself had no meaning.

I have only to break into the tightness of a strawberry, and I see summer - its dust and lowering skies.

It is sheer good fortune to miss somebody long before they leave you.

Sifting daylight dissolves the memory, turns it into dust motes floating in light.

Now he knew why he loved her so. Without ever leaving the ground, she could fly. 'There must be another one like you,' he whispered to her. 'There's got to be at least one more woman like you.

Wait, wait, wait, wait. Don't try to write through it, to force it. Many do, but that won't work. Just wait, it will come.

Sex is difficult to write about because it's just not sexy enough. The only way to write about it is not to write much. Let the reader bring his own sexuality into the text. A writer I usually admire has written about sex in the most off-putting way. There is just too much information.