There was a desperate undercurrent to our marriage--a feeling of being in a dream from which I couldn't seem to awaken. A nagging sense that my life, laid out so neatly like the clothes Deirdre left on my divan, was no longer my own.

When I am writing anything in general, I just want to tell the story that exists in my head; I don't try to write a parable or make a point.

And then I wonder, does my brother think of me this way? We entered this world together, one after the other, beats in a pulse. But I will be first to leave it. That's what I've been promised. When we were children, did he dare to imagine an empty space beside him where I then stood giggling, blowing soap bubbles through my fingers? When I die, will he be sorry that he loved me? Sorry that we were twins? Maybe he already is.

It is the face of a girl who has seen the world, who realizes that it hates her, and who hates it in return.

Linden just wants to protect her, is what I want to say. She's all he has. I left him. I'm at arms reach, but I've left him.

I always knew I was an excellent liar; I just didn't know that I had it in me to fool myself.

The only characters I ever don't like are ones that leave no impression on me. And I don't write characters that leave no impression on me.