As Most New Yorkers Have Done, I

As We Grow Up, It Feels Like You Should Either Invite People Into Your Life Or Not. There Should Be Fewer And Fewer Instances Of Friends You ‘can Only Take In Small Doses.’

I Like To Try To Do A Little Work Before I Do Anything In The Morning, Even If It's A Paragraph.

Because, Ten-year-olds Of The World, You Shouldn't Believe What Your Teachers Tell You About The Beauty And Specialness And Uniqueness Of You. Or, Believe It, Little Snowflake, But Know It Won't Make A Bit Of Difference Until After Puberty. It's Newton's Lost Law: Anything That Makes You Unique Later Will Get Your Chocolate Milk Stolen And Your Eye Blackened As A Kid. Won't It, Sebastian? Oh, Yes, It Will, My Little Mandarin Chinese-learning, Poe-reciting, High-top-wearing Friend. God Bless You, Wherever You Are.

My Mother Is A Special Education Teacher But Also An Artist, And My Father An Advertising Executive. They Are About As Wacky As You Can Get Without Being Alcoholics.

For Me, Titles Are Either A Natural Two-second Experience Or Stressful Enough To Give You An Ulcer. If They Don't Pop Out Perfect On The First Try, They Can Be Really Hard To Repair. Or, Worse, If The Author Thinks They Pop Out Perfect, But The Publishing House Does Not Agree, It's Difficult To Shift Gears. And Then? Then You Go Insane.