Developing characters is a strange thing. In the beginning they are abstract and I wonder how to move on from there.

She got under the covers and put her arms around the bag. She could smell Tibby. It used to be she couldn't smell Tibby's smell in the way you couldn't smell your own; it was too familiar. But tonight she could. This was some living part of Tibby still here and she held on to it. There was more of Tibby with her here and now than in what she had seen in the cold basement room that day.

Her body was a prison, her mind was a prison. Her memories were a prison. The people she loved. She couldn't get away from the hurt of them. She could leave Eric, walk out of her apartment, walk forever if she liked, but she couldn't escape what really hurt. Tonight even the sky felt like a prison.

She cared about him too much, and he was a dangerous person to love. He wouldn't love her back.

But then she hadn’t just learned to love this summer – she had also learned how to need.

As a writer, you live in such isolation. It's hard to imagine your book has a life beyond you.

Carmen was bad at loving. She loved too hard.