She wished she could swap her days for her nights, her reality for her dreams. Were you allowed to change from one side to the other?
But now he held her. He forgot to worry as much about waking her up. She turned her body to his, eyes closed, and curled herself around him. She pressed her cheek to her chest, and he felt the tickle of her hair in his neck and under his nose. Trust and love went together.
Your problem isn’t the problem, it’s your attitude about the problem.
I look back on my 20s. It’s supposed to be the prime of your life, the most vital, the most beautiful. But you’re making your critical decisions and sometimes your most critical mistakes.
There was love expressed in the places you usually forget to look.
But certain souls cohere. It’s rare but possible. But it takes two powerful wills to make it so.
She was alive, and they were dead. She had to try to make her life big. As big as she could. She promised Bailey she would keep playing.
I do believe that characters in novels belong to their writers and their readers pretty equally. I’ve learned a lot of things about the characters I write from people who read about them. Readers expand them in ways I don’t think of and take them to places I can’t go.
A loving soul was always more beautiful over the long haul, but actual prettiness was fleeting.
I always interpret coincidences as little clues to our destiny.
People sometimes talk about the power of first impressions, and believe me, there is truth to it.
She spilled rice on my knee, and she smiled. I wanted her to spill a thousand things on me, lava, acid, bricks, anything, and smile each time.
She kept walking. The very small, brave part of her brain knew that this would be her one chance. If she turned around, she would lose it.
The path of your life can change in an instant.
Maybe there is more truth in how you feel than in what actually happens.
He could lose himself in her forever, he thought.
I’m dying with you before I’m living without you.
I did love her. I’ve loved her from the first time I saw her.
She’d loved him as much as he’d let her. More than he’d let her.
As a writer, you live in such isolation. It’s hard to imagine your book has a life beyond you.