But I'd long ago learned not to be picky in farewells. They weren't guaranteed or promised. You were lucky, more than blessed, if you got a good-bye at all.

She said writting novels was like childbirth: if you truly remembered how awful it got, you'd never do it again.

It all depends on how you choose to live it. It's like forever, always changing.

Everything always gets crazy at the end. You just have to keep going, regardless of how awful it gets. So that's what I do.

I think whenever a writer is really enjoying themselves and liking what they are doing, that shows on the page.

It’s funny how one summer can change everything.

"I thought this was a cookout. You know, dogs and burgers, Tater Tots, ambrosia salad" Dexter picked up a box of Twinkies, tossing them into the cart. "And Twinkies." "It is... Except that it's a cookout thrown by my mother." "And?" "And my mother doesn't cook." He looked at me waiting. "At all. My mother doesn't cook at all." "She must cook sometimes." "Nope." "Everyone can make scrambled eggs, Remy. It's programmed into you at birth, the default setting. Like being able to swim and knowing not to mix pickles with oatmeal. You just KNOW."