There are just as many stories to be told in the dark spots as there are in the bright ones.

The moral of this story is that no matter how much we try, no matter how much we want it ... some stories just don't have a happy ending.

We all have stories we tell ourselves, until we believe them to be true.

For the narrative to exist, so that it could be read and reread even if I was taken away. Stories outlive their writers all the time. We know plenty about Goethe and Charles Dickens from what they chose to tell, even though they have been dead for years.

You will ask me, after this, why, I didn't tell you this before. It is because I know how powerful a story can be. It can change the course of history. It can save a life. But it can also be a sinkhole, a quicksand in which you become stuck, unable to write yourself free.

Fiction is like that, once it is released into the world: contagious, persistent. Like the contents of Pandora's box, a story that's freely given can't be contained anymore. It becomes infectious, spreading from the person who created it to the person who listens, and passes it on.

I would figure out, later, how to explain to my boss that, for me, Delia will never be a story, but a happy ending.

Once you call something a story, it's set in stone. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end that can't be transformed, because by definition, if you do that, it's not the same story anymore

How do you know that you are not part of a book? That someone's not reading your story right now?