The weapons an author has at her disposal are flawed. There are words that feel shapeless and overused. Love, for example. I could write the word love a thousand times and it would mean a thousand different things to different readers.

The answer is that there is no good answer. So as parents, as doctors, as judges, and as a society, we fumble through and make decisions that allow us to sleep at night--because morals are more important than ethics, and love is more important than law.

The process of growing up was nothing more than figuring out what doors hadn't yet been slammed in your face.

You always knew after shitty things happened, who your friends really were.

You came back fighting and furious at me. You told me you'd been looking for mermaids, and I interrupted you. [...] I said that next time, you had to take me with you." "Was there a next time?" "Well, you tell me, you don't need water to feel like you're drowning, do you?

How do you know that you are not part of a book? That someone's not reading your story right now?

Your problem is that you have been too honest for too long. Once you start doing it, lying is simpler than breathing.