We have souls. Sure we do. Otherwise we'd do bad things all the time. You know, like politicians.

Take your hands off her, Sinclair told the guy behind me, Or they'll write books about what I'll do to you.

He said my name the way diabetics talked about hot fudge sundaes.

I was so furious I was actually dizzy with it. There were so many bitchy, sarcastic observations to make, I was having a sarcasm stroke. "My God! You people! You're - you're so stupid you're making my eyeballs throb. They're throbbing, dammit!

All writers are crazy. So never mind what the editors and your family and your critique group tells you. Submit your manuscripts and keep submitting until you get an offer. Then you can be crazy, with a paycheck.

Wow, girlfriend, you're incompatible with life! And here I thought I was just incompatible with pink.

Fredrika Bimm, what do you think you're doing?" "Freaking out. Losing my mind. Thinking about snapping your husband's spine. Squashing the urge to vomit. Wishing I had died at childbirth." "Oh, you say that when you don't get a prize in your Lucky Charms.