Losing Chloe had been like reading a wonderfulook only to realize that all the pages past a certain point were blank.

Can you imagine what it would be like to know that your life was just going to be a series of days that were all the same, that were do-overs?

The only person who suffers, when you squirrel alway all that hate, is you.

At 17, the smallest crises took on tremendous proportions; someone else's thoughts could take root in the loam of your own mind; having someone accept you was as vital as oxygen. Adults, light years away from this, rolled their eyes and smirked and said, 'This too shall pass' - as if adolescence was a disease like chicken pox, something everyone recalled as a milk nuisance, completely forgetting how painful it had been at the time.

How could you not want to draw breath one more day? How could your own life be such a cheap commodity? But then I started to understand: when your existence is hell, death must be heaven.

For me it's more important that I outline all the facets of a controversial issue and let the reader make up his or her mind. I don't care if readers change their minds, but I would like readers to ask themselves why their opinion is what it is.

What's worse ...? The devil you don't know ... or the devil you do?