“I never knew my grandmothers, but I could always count of the Bookmobile.”

On every shelf, we see ourselves, experience our collective conscious, describe our dreams and our great longing for times that have passed.

There’s nothing an artist needs more – even more than excellent tools and stamina – than a deadline.

I even love the smell of books.

For a woman, love is the highest dream.

They do not begin to describe me. They do not begin to express what is inside of me.

All the aspects of playwriting, scene-building, the architecture of dramatizing.

All the things I thought I was – simple and plain and sometime funny – are very small words.

Pomegranate Soup is glorious, daring and delightful.

Moments are history. If you have enough of them, they become a story.

People have often told me that one of their strongest childhood memories is the scent of their grandmother’s house.

I loved to read, still do, and it seemed that the writing was a result of the love of books and reading and libraries.

Maybe a first love exists to remind you to be brave in the moment, to stand up for your feelings, instead of shrinking back in the face of potential loneliness.

Sometimes there aren’t reasons behind the terrible things that go on.

I can only get up and do my chores and push through the day and find the good in it.

You have work anytime. But love? Not always.

A good mother is irreplaceable.

The Wise County Bookmobile is one of the most beautiful sights in the world to me.

The Bookmobile is just a government truck, but to me it’s a glittering royal coach delivering stories and knowledge and life itself.