Harder to get in than out, like so little else.

It's always been hard to call myself a writer. I think a part of me still thinks it's too good to be true.

We were willing to do so much for the people we loved, even if it meant hurting ourselves. Maybe that, in the end, was what love- all kinds- was really about.

My agent is so totally honest, which is just what every writer needs. She won't let me sell a crappy book, even if I want to.

How it felt to have the world moving beneath me, a hand gripping mine, knowing if I fell, at least I wouldn't do it alone.

No, no, no to Tallyho.

As Isabel acted out her date, both of them laughing, I stayed in the kitchen, out of sight, and pretended she was telling me, too. And that, for once, I was part of this hidden language of laughter and silliness and girls that was, somehow, friendship.