...the clear water the color of deeply steeped tea, surrounded by cattails and gracile grasses.

You won’t be able to do this ten years from now—just leave everything behind and go.

How do we deal with all the people we’ve been? What happens when we have to confront them?

I'd rather be single, happy, and lonely sometimes than married, lonely, and happy sometimes.

Lesson learned: If a guy tells you you’re his second choice, don’t make him your first.

...tethered to the ground by quotidian conversation.... the window rosy with anemic November light.

The clown was an evil one. They’re either good or bad, and this one was definitely the latter.

Each of us is a book waiting to be written, and that book, if written, results in a person explained.

Everything we have, everything we are, is a gift. How can we judge and shame ourselves if this is true?

All family stories are important, just as all people are important, and they deserve to be passed along.

Yet you stand, too ashamed to run, too fearful to embrace. God I see so much ofwhat I love in that face.

Finally the dawn came, the sky fringed with pink, and the sun bright as a coin in a spill of rising red.

I get absolutely shitfaced. I am shitfaced and hyper and ten years old. I am having the time of my life.

Our stories are mirrors. We can look into them and return to ourselves. We can make of them an offering.

I don't need to write a memoir of my life. All you need to do is read one of my books. I'm there.