When I'm working on something, I proceed as if no one else will ever read it.

Mostly it's lies, writing novels. You set out to tell an untrue story and you try to make it believable, even to yourself. Which calls for details; any good lie does.

I expect that any day now, I will have said all I have to say; I'll have used up all my characters, and then I'll be free to get on with my real life.

It is not how much you love someone, but who you are when you are with him.

My stories are never quite good enough

Once your mind is caught on the right snag, there's nothing so hard about the mechanics of writing.

Something was wrong with a world where people came and went so easily.