When people write to me with stories, they are never ones that work for me. There's something mysterious about which ones catch you.

The paradox of publicity is that even as we do it, we know it's killing off the chance of another reader happening across our book in the ideal state of innocence.

...sentences swallowed and sung back and swallowed all over again. She was made entirely out of words.

You're meant to have an unhappy childhood to be a writer, but there's a lot to be said for a very happy one that just let's you get on with it.

Everybody's damaged by something.

Goodbye, Room." I wave up at Skylight. "Say goodbye," I tell Ma. "Goodbye, Room." Ma says it but on mute. I look back one more time. It's like a crater, a hole where something happened. Then we go out the door.

I am clumsy, a late and nervous driver, and despise all sports except a little gentle dancing or yoga.