Home wasn't a set house, or a single town on a map. It was wherever the people who loved you were, whenever you were together.

I have to admit, an unrequited love is so much better than a real one. I mean, it's perfect... As long as something is never even started, you never have to worry about it ending. It has endless potential.

I think part of the problem sometimes is that there's so much happening in my books, to whittle it down into a single script is hard.

When you had to do something, you had to do it. And eventually, if you were lucky, you did it well.

How weird was it that so many bits and pieces, all diverse, could make something whole. Something with potential. 'Perfect.

So I learned another system: When in doubt, keep it out – out of earshot, out of the house – even if this meant, really, just keeping it in.

I'd known enough people for every minute of the day, and yet still didn't have anyone as my two a.m.