Sam has brown hair and very, very pretty green eyes. The kind of green that doesn't make a big deal about itself.

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.

Those writers that have zero say in their movie adaptations have zero say because they sell it. If you don't sell it, and you do it yourself, and you wait until the screenplay is ready, you don't have to worry about that.

I wish I knew. It might make me miss him more clearly. It might have made sad sense.

The outside lights were on, and it was snowing, and it looked like magic. Like we were somewhere else. Like we were someplace better.

but my dad said it was no excuse. "But I love him!" I had never seen my sister cry that much. "No, you don't." "I hate you!" "No, you don't." My dad can be very calm sometimes. "He's my whole world." "Don't ever say that about anyone again. Not even me." That was my mom.

He's a wallflower." And Bob nodded his head. And the whole room nodded their head. And i started to feel nervous in the Bob way, but Patrick didn't let me get too nervous. He sat down next to me. "You see things. You keep quiet about them. And you understand.