“Ryder has appeared in my dreams once in a while, and in my thoughts a little more often through the last five years (...)”

“Before I knew it, my daily schedule had started to look a lot like this:Monday: Woke up, thought of Ryder; went to school, stared at Ryder; had lunch with J, gaped at Ryder; went to PE, brooded over Ryder's absence; went home, thought of Ryder; took a drive "accidentally" passing by Dave's Garage, spied on Ryder; came home, thought of Ryder; had dinner, no appetite due to lack-of Ryder; went to bed, tossed and turned thinking about Ryder.Tuesday: See above, with minor adjustments.Wednesday: Ryder wasn't in school, my world collapsedThursday: Same as Monday and TuesdayFriday: See above.Saturday: Nightmarishly long, boring. Drove by Dave's Garage twice, hoping to see Ryder.Sunday: See above, minus the drive-by. But, yay, tomorrow I'll see Ryder in school! God bless Mondays.”

“[M]y first published book had just appeared in stores. The last year of my life--the year of finishing it, editing it, and seeing it through its various page-proof passes--ranks among the most unnerving of my young life. It has not felt good, or freeing. It has felt nerve-shreddingly disquieting. Publication simply allows one that much more to worry about. This cannot be said to aspiring writers often or sternly enough. Whatever they carry within themselves they believe publication cures will not, I can all but guarantee, be cured. You just wind up with new diseases.”

“Dreaming is another form of thinking, more concrete, more economical, more visual, and often more emotional than the thoughts of the day, but a thinking through of the day, nevertheless.”

“Ryder: “Well, you’re not the type I want to be my first either.”Grace:“What?” Ryder: “You’re the type I want to be my last. You know...the settle down and marry sort. If you’re my first, then I won’t get to—I don’t know—sow any wild oats or anything.”

“Patrick leans in for a hug through the open doorway, and in his arms I'm reminded of the other dream I had last night, which... oh... which I immediately stamp out of my mind, hoping that no one else noticed the temperature in the room shoot up about five hundred degrees. Could my subconscious be any more inappropriate?”