Breakfast was only worth having when somebody else made it for you.

I love writing and do not know why it is considered such a difficult, agonizing profession. I love all of it, thinking up the plots, getting to know the kids in the story, their parents, backyards, pizza toppings.

People nearly always believe, and are willing to back it up with weapons and cruelty, that their religion and way of life is better than the other person's

Stephen had just come from a class discussion in which several students believed that the right cup of herbal tea would save them from pain and sorrow. Well acquainted with pain and sorrow, Stephen did not contribute to the discussion. He merely crossed these idiots off his list of possible friends.

I'll take you to Mickey D's," said Sean. "I'll buy you a hamburger." Annie was not thrilled. Sean's offer did not compare to offers made in other centuries. "And fries," Sean said. "And a vanilla milkshake." Annie remained unthrilled. "Okay, okay. You can have a Big Mac." Romance in my century, she thought, is pitiful.

She had gradually changed her name. "Jane" was too dull. Last year, she'd added a "y", becoming Jayne, which had more personality.

I'm one of the lucky writers: plots come easily to me