“Words, words, word. Once, I had the gift. I could make love out of words as a potter makes cups of clay. Love that overthrows empire. Love that binds two hearts together, come hellfire & brimstone. For sixpence a line, I could cause a riot in a nunnery. But now -- I have lost my gift. It's as if my quill is broken, as if the organ of my imagination has dried up, as if the proud -illegible word- of my genius has collapsed.”

“There are words in my life that I wish I'd never said. I wish I'd never told my wife that I loved her, because then I had to line up all my actions with those words. I had to always act like that was true. And those three words, I love you, should never be used if you don't mean them. My lying has meant I will never get to use them on anyone else. I went against my own truth, my own heart, and there is really no coming back from that.”

“The quill has pricked my soul and each word bleeds onto the parchment of my life. My freedom is in my words, therefore, I write.”

“I had two cups of coffee, put Eric's jeans in the washer, read a romance for awhile, and studied my brand-new Word of the Day calendar, a Christmas gift from Arlene. My first word of the New Year was 'exsanguinate.' This was probably not a good omen.”

“I just loved making words into stories by the sound of my voice.”

“Bring your love, baby, I could bring my shameBring the drugs, baby, I could bring my painI got my heart right hereI got my scars right hereBring the cups baby, I could bring the drankBring your body baby, I could bring you fameThat's my muthafucking word, tooJust let me muthafucking love you”