My writer friends, and they are legion, do not go around beaming with quiet feelings of contentment. Most of them go around with haunted, abused, surprised looks on their faces, like lab dogs on whom very personal deodorant sprays have been tested.

Perfectionism means that you try not to leave so much mess to clean up. But clutter and mess show us that life is being lived.

I remember staring at my son endlessly when he was an infant, stunned by his very existence, wondering where on earth he had come from.

Write as if your parents are dead.

Raising a child, whether or not it is yours, is like Nautilus of the heart and soul.

A writer paradoxically seeks the truth and tells lies every step of the way. It's a lie if you make something up. But you make it up in the name of truth, and then you give your heart to expressing it clearly.

I'm here to be me, which is taking a great deal longer than I had hoped.