For whatever reason, I recently started thinking about what advice I would give to myself a decade ago if given the chance. Then I realized that was a stupid waste of time. First, because it’s a cliched exercise that only breeds cliched nuggets of meme-abley meaningless wisdom. Second, because I absolutely cannot, ever, give 21-year-old Natalie advice. She doesn’t exist. Finally, once you’ve written a book about a series your worst young adult decisions, you’ve pretty much exorcised those demons anyway.