“when I have a daughter, and she comes to me and says, "mama, why do you write so much?" I will look at her and tell her, that I write because I don't know how to sew, and there has to be something that keeps my seams from ripping open, and to keep my heart and lungs from flying right out of my chest and being open for the whole world to corrupt, and break. and the first time she comes to me with a scrape on her leg, and says, "mama, I think my guts are starting to spill out, will writing cure this?" I will carefully examine this scratch, and tell her, that writing doesn't cure these kind of ailments, a simple band aid will do, and I will pull out a Little Mermaid band aid, and she will smile. but the first time she comes to me and says, "mama, I let a boy get too close, and now I have a broken heart, what am I going to do?" I will hold her in my arms, and when she is done crying, I will go to my room and come back with a notebook, and tell her to write, to pick up this pen, and write whatever comes to her mind, "it won't make the pain go away," I'll say, "but it will give you a reason to keep going." and every time I see her pick up pen and paper, I will pick up mine, and write, hoping, with everything in my being, that my writing will sew her back together, and keep that big heart inside of her chest, because I was never able to write with a stitch thick enough, that could hold my heart in, it came spilling out, and it was passed around.”