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

And now I have to stop. Because every time I remember this, I have to cry a little by myself. I don't know why something that made me so happy then feels so sad now. Maybe that is the way it is with the best memories.

I saw what I had been fighting for: It was for me, a scared child, who had run away a long time ago to what I had imagined was a safer place. And hiding in this place, behind my invisible barriers, I knew what lay on the other side: Her side attacks. Her secret weapons. Her uncanny ability to find my weakest spots. But in the brief instant that I had peered over the barriers I could finally see what was finally there: an old woman, a wok for her armor, a knitting needle for her sword, getting a little crabby as she waited patiently for her daughter to invite her in.

I didn't fear failure. I expected failure.

Only two kinds of daughters, she shouted in Chinese. Those who are obedient and those who follow their own mind!

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.

You have to be your own person. You can't let people's opinions determine how you think about yourself. There's a difference between identity and self-identity.