But I do not actually remember being a monster. I just remember wanting my own way.

I lived in books more than I lived anywhere else.

I went away in my head, into a book. That was where I went whenever real life was too hard or too inflexible.

A story only matters, I suspect, to the extent that the people in the story change.

But there was a kitten on my pillow, and it was purring in my face and vibrating gently with every purr, and, very soon, I slept.

Books were safer than other people anyway.

Nobody looks like what they really are on the inside. You don’t. I don’t. People are much more complicated than that. It’s true of everybody.

I make art, sometimes I make true art, and sometimes it fills the empty places in my life. Some of them. Not all.

Words save our lives, sometimes.

You get on with your own life. Lettie gave it to you. You just have to grow up and try and be worth it.

They were not my friends, after all. They were just the people I went to school with.

The Holy Spirit is our great Teacher.

I am responsible for my own well-being my own happiness. The choices and decisions I make regarding my life directly influence the quality of my days.

In the real world, illiquid assets carry a discount.

The past always looks better than it was; it's only pleasant because it isn't here.

words are but drops pressed out of the lives of those who lived them.

I work pretty much every day. I can't really separate it from life, so I guess the work is my life.

Through the chill of December the early winter moans... but it's that January wind that rattles old bones.

We are being called into realization with great urgency and extraordinary beauty, and oftentimes not without difficulty.

When I believe in something, I fight like hell for it.

I've always written stories from female perspectives. That it's one of the reasons I write, to have that experience.