I love the way you love, but I hate the way I'm supposed to love you back.

I know I never work in whatever gets called an office, e.g., a school office I use only for meeting students and storing books I know I'm not going to read anytime soon.

Boo, I think I no longer believe in monsters as faces in the floor or feral infants or vampires or whatever. I think at seventeen now I believe the only real monsters might be the type of liar where there's simply no way to tell. The ones who give nothing away.

The job of the first eight pages is not to have the reader want to throw the book at the wall, during the first eight pages.

...the sun would leave my sky if I couldn't assume you'd simply come and tell me you were sad.

There's a weird kind of paradox that the more expensive the vacation is, the more potentially anxiety-producing it is.

There are very few innocent sentences in writing.