There are a million talented writers who are unpublished only because they stop writing when it gets hard.

Worries find you easily enough without inviting them.

Women get consumed. Not surprising, considering the sheer amount of traffic a woman's body experiences. Tampons and speculums. Cocks, fingers, vibrators and more, between the legs, from behind, in the mouth.

A town so suffocating and small, you tripped over people you hated every day. People who knew things about you. It's the kind of place that leaves a mark.

I just think some women aren't made to be mothers. And some women aren't made to be daughters.

I feel like I need to give people a note with the book that says, 'I'm OK, no worries!'

To refuse has so many more consequences than submitting.