I once read about a guy who lost his arms in a fire. The nurse took pity on him and gave him a hand job. I don't even get that.

The line between normal and crazy seemed impossibly thin. A person would have to be an expert tightrope walker in order not to fall.

So that's what I'm here to become. And suddenly, this word fills me with a brand of sadness I haven't felt since childhood. The kind of sadness you feel at the end of summer. When the fireflies are gone, the ponds have dried up and the plants are wilted, weary from being so green.

All of us are richer and more fascinating and more complex than we can ever know.

The secret to being a writer is that you have to write. It's not enough to think about writing or to study literature or plan a future life as an author. You really have to lock yourself away, alone, and get to work.

Love is a helium-based emotion; Love always takes the high road.

You are allowed to be alive. You are allowed to be somebody different. You are allowed to not say goodbye to anybody or explain a single thing to anyone, ever.