Not getting bored of my own story and/or character is one of the main struggles I have had with novel writing, and I have put to bed big chunks of work that just didn't sustain my interest.

Many kids, it seemed, would find out that their parents were flawed, messed-up people later in life, and I didn't appreciate getting to know it all so strong and early.

I didn’t mind the quiet stretches. It was like we were trying out the idea of being side by side.

It was like we were exchanging codes, on how to be a father and a daughter, like we'd read about it in a manual, translated from another language, and were doing our best with what we could understand.

I felt the crumpled paper that had taken the place of my lungs expand as if released from a fist.

My eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.

It seemed to happen in springs, the revealing of things.