If you write a story based on a real person, you're trapped by the details of the real person and his life. It gets in the way of writing your own story.

I believe my readers are crazy about their parents and want to be just like them when they grow up

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.

I wonder why we always deny love. I remember in middle school, if you were accused of the crime of loving, you screamed denials constantly and stopped ever even looking at the boy you were accused of liking. The boys could destroy each other by yodeling, "An-drew lo-oves Jen-nie," and both Andrew and Jennie would flinch and blush. Love is this great thing that most songs and books and poems and lives are all about. So the minute we actually think there might be love around, we start laughing and pretending and hiding from it.

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

People think they own time. They have watches and clocks and digital pulses. But they are wrong. Time owns them.

I get letters from readers who say that they have always hated reading, but somebody suggested one of my books, they actually finished the book and enjoyed it, and they're going on to read another book. I'm thrilled that they have figured out that reading is fun