No one knows how to write a novel until it’s been written.
That is how you know you’ve left childhood behind-when you wish for time to go backward.
They weren’t true stories; they were better than that.
Anyway, the sort of love that will not wait is probably best to pass by.
All the characters in my books are imagined, but all have a bit of who I am in them – much like the characters in your dreams are all formed by who you are.
This day is going to be awful. It’s the sort of day you wouldn’t mind losing completely, even if it meant your life would be twenty-four hours shorter.
It was the sort of beauty you feel so deeply it becomes contagious and somehow makes you feel beautiful too.
But what we are given is taken as well, so that we know God’s glory comes to us from His will alone.
Sometimes, running away means you’re headed in the exact right direction.
Do people choose the art that inspires them – do they think it over, decide they might prefer the fabulous to the real? For me, it was those early readings of fairy tales that made me who I was as a reader and, later on, as a storyteller.
I have crossed over to a place where I never thought I’d be. I am someone I would have never imagined. A secret. A dream. I am this, body and soul. Burn me. Drown me. Tell me lies. I will still be who I am.
The sky is already purple; the first few stars have appeared, suddenly, as if someone had thrown a handful of silver across the edge of the world.
Mothers always find ways to fit in the work – but then when you’re working, you feel that you should be spending time with your children and then when you’re with your children, you’re thinking about working.
My theory is that everyone at one time or another has been at the fringe of society in some way: an outcast in high school, a stranger in a foreign country, the best at something, the worst at something, the one who’s different. Being an outsider is the one thing we all have in common.
He has the ability to catch someone by the way that he looks at her, and make her wish he would go on looking.
Still, she knows one thing for certain: never judge a relationship unless you are the one wrapped up in its arms.
He’d thought he was lost, but now he recognized that eternity was around him, like salt from a shaker or stars in the sky.
Jill and I have known each other our whole lives. One house separates our houses but we act as if it doesn’t exist. We met before we were born and we’ll probably still know each other after we die. At least, that’s the way we’re planning it.
Burn me. Drown me. Tell me lies. I will still be who I am.
What else is there to write about than love and loss?