All I know is that I carried you for nine months. I fed you, I clothed you, I paid for your college education. Friending me on Facebook seems like a small thing to ask in return.

I don't base my books on my life (thank goodness) and I don't pick the topic first. In fact, the topic picks me - via a question I can't answer as a mom, a wife, a woman, an American. I find myself wondering "What if..." and it blossoms into a whole novel.

We are all, I suppose, beholden to our parents - the question is, how much?

If you choose to be looking for something, you'd better be ready for whatever it is you are find. Because it may not be what you've been expecting.

Can you hate someone for what they have done, but still love them for whom they had been?

The music we listen to may not define who we are. But it’s a damn good start.

[I] don't think I was trying to kill myself. I just wanted to hurt, and understand exactly whay I was hurting. This made sense: you cut, you felt pain, period.