I exaggerated even before I began to exaggerate, because it's true — nothing is ever quite as bad as it could be.

I do feel that if you can write one good sentence and then another good sentence and then another, you end up with a good story.

When my mother died, my father's early widowhood gave him social cachet he would not have had if they had divorced. He was a bigger catch for the sorrow attached.

And I see that not touching for so long was a drive to the beach with the windows rolled up so the waves feel that much colder.

Then the children went to bed, or at least went upstairs, and the men joined the women for a cigarette on the porch, absently picking ticks engorged like grapes off the sleeping dogs. And when the men kissed the women good night, and their weekend whiskers scratched the women's cheeks, the women did not think shave, they thought stay.

Just once in my life--oh, when have I ever wanted anything just once in my life?

I probably have less revision than those who have that wonderful rush of story to tell - you know, I can't wait to tell you what happened the other day. It comes tumbling out and maybe then they go back and refine. I kind of envy that way of working, but I just have never done it.