Apparently even the most awful tragedies, and the people they'd ruined, got a little stale after a while.

There's not some finite amount of pain inside us. Our bodies and minds just keep manufacturing more of it.

I used to describe myself as a comic novelist, but my concerns seem to have darkened over the past few years.

Jill felt an emptiness open inside of her as she lifted her arm, a sense that something vital was being subtracted from her life. It was always like that when somebody you cared about went away, even when you knew it was inevitable, and it probably wasn't your fault.

She would be a mentor and an inspiration to girls like herself, the quiet ones who'd sleepwalked their way through high school, knowing nothing except that they couldn't possibly be happy with any of the choices the world seemed to be offering them.

You could say that this book is ripped from the headlines, but that wouldn't be fair. Bret Anthony Johnston's riveting novel picks up where the tabloids leave off, and takes us places even the best journalism can't go. Remember Me Like This is a wise, moving, and troubling novel about family and identity, and a clear-eyed inventory of loss and redemption.

Nothing beats novel writing because it's complete expression of you. You just control everything. Not even a movie director has that level of control.