CAROLINE B. COONEY

I wrote eight full-length adult novels in my twenties. None of them were published.

I get letters from readers who say that they have always hated reading, but somebody suggested one of my books, they actually finished the book and enjoyed it, and they're going on to read another book. I'm thrilled that they have figured out that reading is fun.

I'm one of the lucky writers: plots come easily to me.

If you write a story based on a real person, you're trapped by the details of the real person and his life. It gets in the way of writing your own story.

Actually my first eight books were historical novels, but they were never published.

I believe my voice is pretty much the same. I've written 75 books, so I'm better at it now than I was earlier in my career.

I love all of it, thinking up the plots, getting to know the kids in the story, their parents, backyards, pizza toppings.

I love writing and do not know why it is considered such a difficult, agonizing profession.

My favorite book is always the one I'm working on at the moment.

I decided to write short stories because they got rejected quicker.

I approach serious subjects, and I like to have the good guys win and have the parents among the good guys.

I believe my readers are crazy about their parents and want to be just like them when they grow up.

People nearly always believe, and are willing to back it up with weapons and cruelty, that their religion and way of life is better than the other person's.

Breakfast was only worth having when somebody else made it for you.

I wonder why we always deny love. I remember in middle school, if you were accused of the crime of loving, you screamed denials constantly and stopped ever even looking at the boy you were accused of liking. The boys could destroy each other by yodeling, "An-drew lo-oves Jen-nie," and both Andrew and Jennie would flinch and blush. Love is this great thing that most songs and books and poems and lives are all about. So the minute we actually think there might be love around, we start laughing and pretending and hiding from it.

in Los Angeles ... was the thinking-est crowd on earth: how to get ahead, how to mold a better body, how to have a better relationship, how to score, earn, fight, win, get published, be a star.

When in doubt, shut up.

What more can life hold, than to know that because of your story, somebody out there has decided to read again!

But sometimes, in tight corners, when your back is against the wall and the world is against you, you have to fight back in unexpected ways.

But I found my family. I found the right thing to do. I found the way home.

Stephen had just come from a class discussion in which several students believed that the right cup of herbal tea would save them from pain and sorrow. Well acquainted with pain and sorrow, Stephen did not contribute to the discussion. He merely crossed these idiots off his list of possible friends.

She had gradually changed her name. "Jane" was too dull. Last year, she'd added a "y", becoming Jayne, which had more personality.

I love writing and do not know why it is considered such a difficult, agonizing profession. I love all of it, thinking up the plots, getting to know the kids in the story, their parents, backyards, pizza toppings.

I'll take you to Mickey D's," said Sean. "I'll buy you a hamburger." Annie was not thrilled. Sean's offer did not compare to offers made in other centuries. "And fries," Sean said. "And a vanilla milkshake." Annie remained unthrilled. "Okay, okay. You can have a Big Mac." Romance in my century, she thought, is pitiful.

Lying on the front passenger seat, as if it didn't matter, was Rose's Diary. It Mattered.