The life we receive is not always what we choose.

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.

Writing what you wished was the most dangerous form of wishful thinking.

I would find myself laughing and wondering where these ideas came from. You can call it imagination, I suppose. But I was grateful for wherever they came from.

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.

I was punched breathless by the strongest emotions I have ever felt and they are now stored in my intuition as a writer.

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