Truth for anyone is a very complex thing. For a writer, what you leave out says as much as those things you include. What lies beyond the margin of the text? The photographer frames the shot writers frame their world.

We continue to love in spite of the pain, tears & heartbreak. Perhaps the pain makes us stronger, the tear makes us braver & the heartbreak makes us wiser.

Creative work is incredibly difficult, and that is where the tests lie.

Perhaps the universe is a memory of our mistakes.

Saddest of all are the women who were brought up to believe that self-sacrifice is the highest female virtue. They made the sacrifice, often willingly, and they are still waiting for the blessing.

I don't like to think of myself as an insincere person but if I say I love you and I don't mean it then what else am I? Will I cherish you, adore you, make way for you, make myself better for you, look at you and always see you, tell you the truth? And if love is not those things then what things?