I always used to be an inside person, and now I'm an outside person.

Write because you love the art and the discipline, not because you're looking to sell something.

I don't want to stand with somebody's praise.

Hope is a horrible thing, you know. I don't know who decided to package hope as a virtue because it's not. It's a plague. Hope is like walking around with a fishhook in your mouth and somebody just keeps pulling it and pulling it.

I used to do everything to keep a wall up around myself and keep my life quiet so that I could write.

From my table inside I watch the glamorous women outside who are lunching on Spa Cobb salads without blue cheese or dressing. The man with the bread basket wanders from table to table, lonesome as a cloud. When he comes to me his basket is full and perfectly arranged. He gives me a smile of sincere pleasure when I tell him I will take both the sourdough roll and the cheese stick.

I believe, in my better moments, that there is a plan and things go not the way we want them to but the way they should.