He took the hat from my mouth. ''Tell me you love me'', he said. Gently I did. The end came anyway

I have never been shy about listening to the input of others and weighing it seriously.

At fourteen, my sister sailed away from me into a place I’d never been. In the walls of my sex there was horror and blood, in the walls of hers there were windows.

It's hard, because when you talk about process or your characters ruling your narrative, it sounds like you have no control, but obviously you're ultimately the author, so you do have control.

I'm fine with whatever comes my way, and whatever doesn't come my way I'm fine with too. I have a very laissez-faire attitude with the whole thing.

I'm just a friendly bystander who they occasionally ask questions of. That's my level of involvement.

Murderers are not monsters, they're men. And that's the most frightening thing about them.