When I turned fifteen, I remember my father gave me a credit card which I was allowed to use for two things: emergencies and books.

But there were times when you felt miserable and you wanted to feel better, and other times when you felt miserable and you figured you would just keep on feeling miserable.

I do believe that characters in novels belong to their writers and their readers pretty equally. I've learned a lot of things about the characters I write from people who read about them. Readers expand them in ways I don't think of and take them to places I can't go.

She kept walking. The very small, brave part of her brain knew that this would be her one chance. If she turned around, she would lose it.

She wasn't as destructive as Bee. She had never been as dramatic. Rather, she'd slipped carefully, stealthily away from her ghosts.

This body is breaking down, but I am not.

I love her. I need her. I gave away everything I had for her. I just wanted her to know me.