I Know Very Few Writers Who Outline

Apparently Even The Most Awful Tragedies, And The People They'd Ruined, Got A Little Stale After A While.

To This Day, She’s Still Sad. Because There’s Not Some Finite Amount Of Pain Inside Us. Our Bodies And Minds Just Keep Manufacturing More Of It. I’m Just Saying That I Took The Pain That Was Inside Of Her At That Moment And Made It My Own. And It Didn’t Hurt Me At All.

The Lesson You Have To Learn As Novelist Is How To Be Collaborative, And How To Say, "i Don't Get To Dictate This."

It's Like The Human Race Has Been Programmed For Misery.

She Told Her Therapist It Reminded Her Of Coming Home The Summer After Her Freshman Year At Rutgers, Stepping Back Into The Warm Bath Of Family And Friends, Loving It For A Week Or Two, And Then Feeling Trapped, Dying To Return To School, Missing Her Roommates And Her Cute New Boyfriend, The Classes And The Parties And The Giggly Talks Before Bed, Understanding For The First Time That That Was Her Real Life Now, That This, Despite Everything She'd Ever Loved About It, Was Finished For Good.