I've never envied the person who had to put my books together in one script.

I think part of the problem sometimes is that there's so much happening in my books, to whittle it down into a single script is hard.

How it felt to have the world moving beneath me, a hand gripping mine, knowing if I fell, at least I wouldn't do it alone.

Home wasn't a set house, or a single town on a map. It was wherever the people who loved you were, whenever you were together. Not a place, but a moment, and then another, building on each other like bricks to create a solid shelter that you take with you for your entire life, wherever you may go.

I wondered if emotions were like menstrual cycles, if you get enough women together. Give it time, and everyone was crying.

That first love. And the first one who breaks your heart. For me, they just happen to be the same person.