She looked at her hand: Just some hand, holding a cheap pen. Some girls’ hand. She had nothing to do with that hand. Let that hand do whatever it wanted to.

She couldn’t get any farther away inside from her skin. She couldn’t get away.

And it occurred to me; I was not part of the action. Oh God, I thought, I'm not an anthropologist. I'm the lonely voice-over narrator of adolescence. The bitter, voice-over voice.

I swear, you are the only person I know who makes decisions based on what will provide the best material for a diary.

I’m not the damsel in distress. I’m the villain. It’s only a matter of time before he realizes this.

My writing process often begins with a question. I write down ideas and let them stew for about a year. Then, when I sit down to write, I make a list of characters and try to see how they fit.