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. Not a place, but a moment, and then another, building on each other like bricks to create a solid shelter that you take with you for your entire life, wherever you may go.

Everything, in the end, comes down to timing. One second, one minute, one hour could make all the difference.

Hey, and for what it's worth? Friends don't leave you alone in the woods. Friends are the ones who come and take you out.

But if something was really important, fate made sure it somehow came back to you and gave you another chance.

This was our common ground, the secret we shared but never spoke aloud.

It took a lot of work to be perfect. If you didn’t want to break a sweat, there was no point in even bothering.

Usually when I finish the draft of a book, I'm sure I'll never write another one. I'm just that tired and sick of myself. But then another idea starts percolating. It usually begins with the narrator's name, then some idea that intrigues me about her life or situation. I try to ignore it as long as I can, because I know when I start writing, I'll be right back into it, every single day. But eventually, I just have to. It's a compulsion!