I grew to resent the way my father treated his furniture like children, and his children like furniture.

At first I was glad for the help. My freshmen English class, "Mythology and Archetypal Experience," confounded me. I didn't understand why we couldn't just read books without forcing contorted interpretations on then

Partly I resented being perceived as weak because I was a girl.

You can't live and write at the same time.

What would happen if we spoke the truth?

Even drawing gray hair at all is difficult to render in black and white.

I just met someone who read Gone With the Wind 62 times for exactly that same reason. She couldn't bear that it wasn't real. She wanted to live in it.