Both my mother and I have close groups of friends that include other writers, and these friendships are very important to us.

Books light the fire-whether it's a book that's already written, or an empty journal that needs to be filled in.

Part of the beauty of love was that you didn’t need to explain it to anyone else. You could refuse to explain. With love, apparently you didn’t necessarily feel the need to explain anything at all.

And specialness - everyone wants it. But Jesus, is it the most essential thing there is? Most people aren't talented. So what are they supposed to do - kill themselves?

This post-college world felt different from everything that had come before it.

Good writing is good writing, and I'm so happy when I read it.

And I also know that pain can seem like an endless ribbon. You pull it and you pull it. You keep gathering it toward you, and as it collects, you really can't believe that there's something else at the end of it. Something that isn't just more pain. But there's always something else at the end; something at least a little different. You never know what that thing will be, but it's there.