She existed in her friends; there she was. All the parts of herself she'd forgotten. She knew herself best when she was with them.

Polly was pretty good at dieting, all right, but she was beginning to wonder whether you ever lost the parts of your self that you wanted to lose.

I dont really write with the idea of trying to teach any lessons. I want to tell a story as truthfully and engagingly as I can, and then let the chips fall where they may.

She thought she would know when it happened. But now, as she looked around, she wondered if it was really like that at all. Maybe it happened in a million different ways, when you were thinking of it and you weren't. Maybe there was no gap, no jump, no chasm. You didn't forget yourself all at once. Maybe you just looked around one time or another and you thought, Hey. And there you were.

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

I knew her hair and her coloring and her shapes would be different next time, but the way she wore her body would keep on.

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