The admiration of another writer’s work is almost in inverse proportion to similarities in style.

I am not alone in bearing grudges against reviewers who have doomed a book's chances because they've missed the point, the tone, everything.

It's gratifying that it does; I love to give readings.

It's not about having things figured out, or about communicating with other people, trying to make them understand what you understand. It's about a chicken dinner at a drive-in. A soft pillow. Things that don't need explaining.

I don't even correct people when they mispronounce my name now.

I don't write about things that I have the answers to or things that are very close to home. It just wouldn't be any adventure. It wouldn't have any vitality.

I must say also that it's never worked to my disadvantage that I have long, blond hair.