“Now tell me something. What’s your word for husband?” “Hellren, I suppose. The short version is just hell.” She laughed softly. “Go figure.”

“What are you doing eightstates away from home, Mr. Noel Springs? What’s your story?”“Short version?”I couldn’t resist flirting, just a little. “Long. Short. Whatever yagot.”

“That’s writing, I suppose—dozens of decisions about what’s in, what’s out, what goes with what, what’s clever but not honest, what’s so honest that it’s a truism, what’s meretricious—and all just to produce one short sketch.”

“That was the time he tried to tell her that she had to leave the valley and go to college. I believe the edited for TV version of her response was something like "Fudge you, you're not my gosh-darn alpha anymore. You don't tell me to leave the fudging pack. Now, get the fudge away from me before I ripe your--' What? It was funny at the time.”

“Salman Rushdie said, "A book is a version of the world. If you do not like it, ignore it; or offer your own version in return." So if someone tells me I've written something that's historically inaccurate, I can just tell them, "Salman Rushdie said I could." :)”

“I sometimes wonder if it is just me, or if there are other women who figure out where they are supposed to be by going nowhere.”