He says a million things without saying a word. I have never heard a more eloquent silence.

I've written in every imaginable location; a repurposed closet, the kitchen table, the bleachers while my kids had basketball practice, the front seat of the car when they were at soccer. In airports. On trains. In the break room when I was supposed to be wolfing down dinner. In the back of classrooms when I was supposed to be paying attention.

I want to go to sleep and not wake up, but I don’t want to die.

I doubt trees are ever told to 'be the screwed-up ninth-grader.'

If I ever form a clan, we'll be the anti-cheerleaders and walk under the bleacher forming mild acts of mayhem.

I wanted to pull down a book, open it proper, and gobble up page after page

I am a gluttonous, gorging failure. A waste. My body isn’t used to high-sugar carbs laced with witchcraft. It can barely cope with soup and crackers.