I don't mind finding these ugly sides to my personality and exaggerating them because that's something you can write towards.

I know what it's like to feel snobby; I know what it's like to feel anxiety; I know what it's like to feel like busted because you're crazy.

I suppose I could admire all these slow Seattle drivers for their safety-mindedness, consideration for others, and peace of mind. Instead, I'm a fury of annoyance.

There's something uniquely exhilarating about puzzling together the truth at the hands of an unreliable narrator.

You want to know the coolest part?" Mom chimed in. "There isn't assigned seating at the dinning room, and they have tables for four. That means the three of us can sit down and if we pile the extra chair with our gloves and hats, nobody can sit with us!"
Dad and I looked a each other, like, Is she joking?
"And penguins," Mom quickly added. "I'm wildly excited about all those penguins.

'Where'd You Go, Bernadette' is an epistolary novel - one told in letters. I had no idea how much fun it would be, puzzling together the plot with letters and documents.