The trees like lungs filling with air. My sister, the mean one, pulling my hair.

I'm constantly having doubts and moments of depression and then excitement and then back into the slough of despond.

She wanted a book to take her places she couldn't get to herself.

When I wrote The Virgin Suicides, I gave myself very strict rules about the narrative voice: the boys would only be able to report what they had seen or found or what had been told to them.

The following doodle: a girl with pigtails is bent under the weight of a gigantic boulder. Her cheeks puff out, and her rounded lips expel steam. One widening steam cloud contains the word Pressure, darkly retraced.

There is a small window of opportunity for freckled girls to tan.

On their best days, writers all over the world are winning Pulitzers, all alone in their studios, with no one watching.