Regrets Don't Help Anything.

You Can Tell Which Girls Lack Mothers By The Look Of Their Hair.

I Never Know How To Give Advice To A Writer Because There's So Much You Could Say, And It's Hard To Translate Your Own Experience. But Of Course, I Always Try. The Main Thing That I Usually End Up Saying Is To Read A Lot. To Read A Great Deal And To Learn From That.

There's Nothing Like A Song About Lost Love To Remind You How Everything Precious Can Slip From The Hinges Where You've Hung It So Careful.

Still Everyone, Including The Abbot, Had Said That He Was Running Away From His Grief. They'd Had No Idea What They Were Talking About. He'd Cradled His Grief, Almost To The Point Of Loving It. For So Long He Refused To Give It Up, Because Leaving It Behind Was Like Leaving Her.

Finally, I Began To Write About Becoming An Older Woman And The Trepidation It Stirred. The Small, Telling "betrayals" Of My Body. The Stalled, Eerie Stillness In My Writing, Accompanied By An Ache For Some Unlived Destiny. I Wrote About The Raw, Unsettled Feelings Coursing Through Me, The Need To Divest And Relocate, The Urge To Radically Simplify And Distill Life Into A New, Unknown Meaning.