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I like to think of love as something that one should keep feeding, like a fire.

“Nobody asked you to write.” Over time, I realized it was a magic key.

“The Sentry” taught me that all true laughter has tears behind it.

I’ve read this novel at various stages of my life and I feel as if I know Isabel.

I’ve found that love has provided my life’s happiest moments.

A friend of my father’s once told me, “You’ll never be a writer.”

Favorite character? What a question. It’s like choosing a favorite child.

A more typical writing day for me is being constantly interrupted.

I once heard in a sermon, “Choose the important over the urgent.”

A grin of bitterness swept thereby like an ominous bird a-wing.

If he was going to pick me up, the least he could do was look at me.

Some goals: stop buying jeans. Stop being angry at mom/dad/sister.

Dad was blind until six months ago, when he bumped his head in the fire.

Even then (Colin remembers now), it felt like the end of something.

i stored away in my mama’s empty perfume bottles smells and stories

Insomnia! There is a sickly romance to the affliction—initially.

She had not anticipated that the nightstands would be an issue.

It’s been months, and the fields are good for nothing but night talks.

“Why do we always fight,” he finally said, his voice quiet, resigned.

This is all there is. Nothing else. No heaven and no hell, okay?

The women wanted signs of regret, but she was straight shouldered.

It’s true, I killed my husband. I had my reasons. He was a hunter on the trail.

The Village wasn’t really a village. No walnut trees. Just cut flowers.

The end’s already in motion, the end was starting this whole time.

Xin Bao had gotten drunk and stolen a hyacinth macaw.

The letters combine into words that resurrect the beloved every time.

She’s not the same, her body more naked in its aging, its disorder.