Wolves never cry.

A man might befriend a wolf, even break a wolf, but no man could truly tame a wolf.

She had no time for sleep, with the weight of the world upon her shoulders. And she feared to dream. Sleep is a little death, dreams the whisperings of the Other, who would drag us all into his eternal night.

She slept with wolves without fear, for the wolves knew a lion was among them.

I try to make the readers feel they've lived the events of the book. Just as you grieve if a friend is killed, you should grieve if a fictional character is killed. You should care. If somebody dies and you just go get more popcorn, it's a superficial experience isn't it?

All fiction has to have a certain amount of truth in it to be powerful.