It's a cold world when no one will touch you.

I nod. Young love is not always forever. I know.

A miracle that can never be: your face, your hands, pledged to me.

I don't believe in miracles, but if the need is great, a girl might make her own miracle.

The people you save won't celebrate you. They'll gather the wood and cheer while you burn.

And what rules of economy dictate that a boy without a foot is more whole than a girl without a tongue?

I have to trust that if a story is strong, it can find its readership, and good editors can steer me well.

Like a soldier back from battle you fill my vision. You're a flood, a baptism I'd forgotten, and the force of you leaves me breathless.

Did we risk our lives to defend a just society, where guilt must be proven and not assumed? Or are we no better than the oppressive kings from whom our fathers fled?

I always want readers to lose themselves completely in a story and feel something, whatever the book invites them to feel. That experience is the best takeaway any book can offer.

The fuzzy boundary lines between different readership ages have always puzzled me, so these days I just write what comes, and assume I can fix the mess later with an editor's help.

There is a curious comfort in letting go. After the agony, letting go brings numbness, and after the numbness, clarity. As if I can see the world for the first time, and my place in it, independent of you, a whole vista of what may be. Even if it is not grand or inspiring, it is real and solid, unlike the fantasy I've built around you. I will do this. I will triumph over you.

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