A long time ago, Anne used to talk about energy - how that was all that love was - ions connecting across synapses of time and air. Don't rationalize, she'd say. None of it will ever make sense. I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, not wanting to cry. Anne was right. None of it made any sense.

I think writers are the history keepers, right? We're the ones who are bearing witness to what's going on in the world. And I feel like it's our job to put that down on paper, and put it out into the world, so that it can be remembered.

One place exists as their interpretation of it. For the people living and thriving inside of it, it's another place.

Fifteen. Sixteen was probably something, but fifteen - fifteen was a place between here and nowhere.

I think boys don't always like to read books with female protagonist - I don't even know what to say about this.

I'm always wondering if he'll return. Sometimes I pray that he doesn't. And sometimes I hope he will. I wish on falling stars and eyelashes. Absence isn't solid the way death is. It's fluid, like language. And it hurts so much...so, so much.

I rewrite my books until they're mostly memorized so that's a lot of rewrites, a lot of time spent with my stories.