I'm obsessed with adolescence. I love to write about people in their 20s. It's such a fraught and exciting and kind of horrible time.

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.

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

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

…kissing George was a little like rolling in caramel after spending years surviving off rice sticks.

Language is the ticket to plot and character, after all, because both are built out of language.

But what I kept wondering about is this: that first second when she felt her skirt burning, what did she think? Before she knew it was candles, did she think she'd done it herself? With the amazing turns of her hips, and the warmth of the music inside her, did she believe, for even one glorious second, that her passion had arrived?