It's funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools - friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty - and said 'do the best you can with these, they will have to do'. And mostly, against all odds, they do.

There are a lot of us, some published, some not, who think the literary life is the loveliest one possible, this life of reading and writing and corresponding. We think this life is nearly ideal.

If you are hoping to find your self-worth and fulfillment in other peoples' opinion of your writing, you will never find it.

I am an Aries. Although I do not believe in astrology, I think this is exactly the right sign to have been born under.

I was raised in a family where none of us ever raised a voice, so there was no room to express feelings of rage or even unabashed joy - a little bashed joy, here or there, or being mildly disgruntled.

Write as if your parents are dead.

I've given guys blow jobs just because I've run out of things to talk about.' Oh, Rae. Who hasn't