I think of myself as Rebecca Wells from Lodi Plantation, in Central Louisiana, a girl who was lucky enough to be born into a family that encouraged creativity and didn't call me lazy or nuts when I dressed up in my mother's peignoirs and played the piano, having painted a small sign decorated in glitter that read 'The Piano Fairy Girl.'

I was near, even though she couldn’t see me. But then I’m always expecting too much from the girl, wanting her to know things she can’t.

I had just asked the kids what would have made them feel more loved. But.

Siddalee looked at me like: You liar, Daddy, you big liar. I don’t know why I’m thinking.

Sidda and I will always have to be careful with each other.

Life is not a book. You can’t just set it down on the coffee table and walk away from it when it gets boring or you get tired.

Well, I could have predicted that something like this was going to happen. You can’t go anywhere with Mama without things getting nuts. If it’s going along too smooth she will invent something just to stir things up. Sometimes we’ll be downtown.

Good Lord didn’t mean for us to hate ourself. He made us to love ourself like He do, with wide open arms.

Uncountable the number off breaths I’ve taken for granted in my life.

Taking out the journal she’d packed, and intending to make some preproduction notes on The Women, Sidda began to write instead about the Ya-Yas. Her hand moved across.