Actually, I love trying to figure out why certain books become hits while others, which may be just as good, have trouble finding an audience.
People grow apart, and sometimes, there nothing anyone can do about it.
Those are some strong currents you’re swimming against.
When you write a book for publication, you’re writing it for other people to read.
Did the poet use red to symbolize blood? Anger? Lust? Or is the wheelbarrow simply red because red sounded better than black?
If time was a string connecting all of your stories, that party would be the point where everything knots up. And that knot keeps growing and growing, getting more and more tangled, dragging the rest of your stories into it.
And in high school, people are always watching so there’s always a reason to pose.
How many times had I let myself connect with someone only to have it thrown back in my face?
I’ve always loved brainstorming with other writers, and I consider having my work critiqued a part of that brainstorming.
Teens in the ’90s had the same basic desires as they do now.
Because what if I got to know you and you turned out to be just like they said? What if you weren’t the person I hoped you were? That, more than anything, would have hurt the most.
The road to publication is like a churro – long and bumpy, but sweet.
Everything seemed good, but I knew it had the potential to be awful.
As a writer, my only responsibility is to tell a compelling story.
They were like two magnets who couldn’t decide whether to attract or repel.
I simply wanted a kiss. I was a freshman girl who had never been kissed. Never. But I liked the boy, he liked me, and I was going to kiss him. That’s the story, the whole story, right there.
I miss video games where the jump-kick was the trickiest combo to master.
The Golden Rule will always be good advice!
What the hell happened to Pluto?!
I’m going to be mentally ill in fifteen years, and that’s why my husband doesn’t want to be around me.