I wanted to write stories for myself. At first it was purely an aesthetic thing about craft. I just wanted to become good at the art of something. And writing was very private.

No one in my family was a reader of literary fiction. So, I didn't have encouragement, but I didn't have discouragement, because I don't think anybody knew what that meant.

And then she had to fill out so many forms she forgot why she had come and what she had left behind.

With each passing day, I didn't lose hope. I fought to have more.

That is the way it is with a wound. The wound begins to close in on itself, to protect what is hurting so much. And once it is closed, you no longer see what is underneath, what started the pain.

It was a distorted form of inverse logic: If hopes never come true, then hope for what you don't want.

I wanted my children to have the best combination: American circumstances and Chinese character. How could I know these things do not mix?