I often don’t say things out loud, even when I should. I contain and compartmentalize to a disturbing degree: In my belly-basement are hundreds of bottles of rage, despair, fear, but you’d never guess from looking at me.
I was not a lovable child, and I’d grown into a deeply unlovable adult. Draw a picture of my soul, and it’d be a scribble with fangs.
The face you give the world tells the world how to treat you.
Tampon commercial, detergent commercial, maxi pad commercial, windex commercial – you’d think all women do is clean and bleed.
She’s easy to like. I’ve never understood why that’s considered a compliment – that just anyone could like you.
Because isn’t that the point of every relationship: to be known by someone else, to be understood? He gets me. She gets me. Isn’t that the simple magic phrase?
Sometimes I think I won’t ever feel safe until I can count my last days on one hand.
My brain goes very easily into the darkness. It always has. There are people who like to see what’s under the rock and people who don’t, and for some reason I’ve always been one of those to say, ‘Hey, let’s flip over that rock.’
To pretend to be calm is to be calm, in a way.
I’m all for whatever transitions the book properly to a movie.
To me, marriage is the ultimate mystery.
I think mystery writers and thriller writers – whatever genre you want to call it – are taking on some of the biggest, most interesting kind of socioeconomic issues around in a really interesting, compelling way.
I’m a true-crime addict. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but I can’t stop.
There are no really new stories anymore.
There are a million talented writers who are unpublished only because they stop writing when it gets hard.
Dark sides are important. They should be nurtured like nasty black orchids.
Love should require both partners to be their very best at all times.
I assumed everything bad in the world could happen, because everything bad in the world already did happen.
Everytime people said I was pretty, I thought of everything ugly swarming beneath my clothes.
What a generous thing that is, I realize, for a husband to try to make his wife laugh.