Now she and I sit together in her room and eat chocolate, and I tell her that in a very long time when we both to go heaven, we should try to get chairs next to each other, close to the dessert table.

Perfectionism is a mean, frozen form of idealism, while messes are the artist's true friend.

Publication is not all that it is cracked up to be. But writing is.

Your unconscious can't work when you are breathing down its neck.

The thing about light is that it really isn’t yours; it’s what you gather and shine back. And it gets more power from reflectiveness; if you sit still and take it in, it fills your cup, and then you can give it off yourself.

What if you wake up some day, and you're 65... and you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life?

At our most primitive we are storytellers and dancers.