Part of the reason I wrote the book was I wanted to understand for myself why such good people let themselves get treated so badly.

I don't know the significance of this, but I find it very interesting.

I really do love my sister. Especially when she's nice.

I sat down and tried to write a story. "Ian MacArthur is a wonderful sweet fellow who wears glasses and peers out of them with delight." That was the first sentence. The problem was that I just couldn't think of the next one. After cleaning my room three times, I decided to leave Ian alone for a while because I was starting to get mad at him.

It’s strange how things can change back as suddenly as they changed originally. When one thing happens and suddenly, things are back to normal.

I wanted to laugh. Or maybe get mad. Or maybe shrug at how strange everyone was, especially me.

I don't know if you've ever felt like that. That you wanted to sleep for thousands of years. Or just not exist.