I get a message from my dad. In the mood I'm in, I tear up to see his name in my inbox, and imagine him down the hall in bed, propped on pillows, emailing me. "Hon,Enjoyed our gelato date the other night. I just want to say I'm proud of you for a lot of reasons. Also, I've attached a picture of my foot."He's such a weirdo goofball. I love him.

It's as if once you hit high school, you're programmed, like a robot, to be an asshole to your parents.

There were about ten years of trying, failing, trying again, suffering rejection, etc. My first published book, 'Story of a Girl', was the fourth book I wrote.

It's a jagged thing in my throat, how much I miss her.

I never had a connection like that to anyone, where every day you think about what you’ll tell them and you wonder what they’re doing, and you know they’re wondering what you’re doing.

A know a place called New Beginnings, but I don't think it works quite like that. You can't just erase everything that came before.

He felt it too, the air between us, the invisible lines that something or someone had drawn to connect us. That's the way I remember it.