if thr r childrn thr mst be a fUtr rt?

Vinegar: that's what fear smells like.

And the question is, which one is really "you.

It's finished. Everything went past, without me.

...water laughing softly down a black stone wall.

"See," Sasha muttered, eyeing the sun. 'It's mine."

th blu nyt th stRs u can't c th hum tht nevr gOs awy

Everyone we've lost, we'll find. Or they'll find us.

Sure, everything is ending," Jules said, "but not yet.

I'm always happy," Sasha said. "Sometimes I just forget.

She looks like someone I want to know, or maybe even be.

I write with pen and paper, my first draft, on legal pads.

Too clear, too clean. The problem was precision, perfection.

That we have some history together that hasn’t happened yet.

Reading is the nourishment that lets you do interesting work.

Life itself is so surprising, a predictable story is unsatisfying.

I never did anything original my whole childhood. I was invisible.

He looks tired, like someone walked on his skin and left footprints.

I'm a dogged person. I respond to adversity with a steely resistance.

It's turning out to be a bad day, a day when the sun feels like teeth.

Real computers scared me; if you can find Them, then They can find you.

I am at my worst trying to write about things that overlap with my life.

Kissing Mother Superior, incompetent, hairball, poppy seeds, on the can.

Rich children are always blond, Jocelyn goes. It has to do with vitamins.

If you can write any way and it's working out, just bow down in gratitude.

But it was another girl, young and new to the city, fiddling with her keys.

This is the music business. 'Five years is five hundred years' - your words.

No one is waiting for me. In this story, I'm the girl no one is waiting for.

I think playing the glamour card is a disastrous error as a literary writer.

I think, The world is actually huge. That's the part no one can really explain.

reach isn’t describable in terms of cause and effect anymore: it’s simultaneous.

Invention and memory are so close together in the place they occupy in my brain.

I love the infinite variety of New York, how it's the epicenter of so many worlds.

She'd risked everything, and here was the result: the raw, warped core of her life.

Oh we'll know each other forever, Bix says. The days of losing touch are almost gone.

I always feel very afraid as I work on books. It's just so hard to write a decent book!

They were snobs or idiots or both...yet she was inexplicably crushed by their coldness.

I haven't had writer's block. I think it's because my process involves writing very badly.

When does a fake Mohawk become a real Mohawk? Who decides? How do you know if it's happened?

I'm not sure if the passage of time affects our core identities so much as reveals them to us.

I just think that, for my particular personality, feeling slightly invisible is always a help.

I number my drafts, and by the time a book is done, I'll have 75 or 80 drafts of some sections.

Everybody sounds stoned, because they're e-mailing people the whole time they're talking to you.

I guess my comfort zone as a writer is diametrically opposed to my comfort zone as a human being.

I love the thriller genre generally. I like murder mysteries and those kinds of adventure stories.

I guess it's always romantic when two people fall in love.... Even if it turns out not to be real.

Remaining a pop phenomenon for 20 years without dying or lapsing into self-parody is quite a feat.

Time is always a component of place; you can't really talk about where without talking about when.

I blurb a lot of books by women, and I'm eager to provide encouragement and support for young women.

As a reader and a writer, I'm happiest when apparently mutually exclusive states can somehow coexist.

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