Male leads in love stories need to be devoted, need to chase trains, cross continents, give up fortunes and thrones, defy convention, face prosecution, take apart rooms and break the backs of angels, sketch the...

Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.

I do have a tendency to want to go back to school at all times in my life. Maybe I’ll do the Ph.D. in art history when I’m 50, or maybe divinity school. I like...

Maybe a person is just made up of a lot of people,” I say. “Maybe we’re accumulating these new selves all the time.

,Cómo es posible que algo puedaparecer una idea tan brillante un día y una estupidez al siguiente?

There once was a girl who found herself dead.She peered over the ledge of heavenand saw that back on earthher sister missed her too much,was way too sad,so she crossed some pathsthat would not have...

You can tell your story any way you damn well please.Its your solo.

There are people everywhere standing in line at the movies, buying curtains, walking dogs, while inside, their hearts are ripping to shreds.

I grew up with older brothers, adore them, can’t imagine going through life without them, and I definitely think I draw on that love when I’m writing about siblings. It’s so powerful, the jump-in-front-of-a-train-to-protect-them kind...

Me would like an invisibility cloak to get the hell out of this mess.

I know the expression love bloomed is metaphorical, but in my heart in this moment, there is one badass flower, captured in time-lapse photography, going from bud to wild radiant blossom in ten seconds flat.

Everyone has always said I look like Bailey, but I don’t.I have grey eyes to her green,an oval face to her heart-shaped one,I’m shorter, scrawnier, paler, flatter, plainer, tamer.All we shared is a madhouse of...

There were once two sisterswho were not afriad of the darkbecause the dark was full of the other’s voiceacross the room,because even when the night was thickand starlessthey walked home together from the riverseeing who...

I don’t believe time heals. I don’t want it to. If I heal, doesn’t that mean I’ve accepted the world without her?

I have had this longstanding interest in going back to school to get a Ph.D. in art history. I was especially interested in exploring this idea of the ecstatic impulse in an artist.