She really does like him, she likes lying next to him, she wants to be around him; when you get down to it, can you say that about many people?

I'm able to separate fiction and reality. I guess it remains to be seen if other people are.

We all stood and gathered our backpacks and I looked at the floor around my chair to make sure I hadn’t dropped anything. I was terrified of unwittingly leaving behind a scrap of paper on which were written all my private desires and humiliations. The fact that no such scrap of paper existed, that I did not even keep a diary or write letters except bland, earnest, falsely cheerful ones to my family (We lost to St. Francis in soccer, but I think we’ll win our game this Saturday; we are working on self-portraits in art class, and the hardest part for me is the nose) never decreased my fear.

When I was writing my first two books I was also freelancing and teaching and doing other odd jobs.

But I never thought of who he wasn't, I never had to explain or defend him to myself, I didn't even care what we talked about.

I feel like if you read something, and it makes you so curious about a topic that you then go read something else, that's exciting.

I thought, if I write a book that is not a retelling of Pride and Prejudice, it's not going to mean that I will not get any criticism. I might as well write the book that I want to write.