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

While armchair travelers dream of going places, traveling armchairs dream of staying put.

I suspect that marriage is like parenthood: every last one of us is an amateur at it.

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.

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

My decision to start a new one is just that, a decision, since I never get inspirations.

She saw herself riding in the passenger seat, Sam behind the wheel. Like two of those little peg people in a toy car. Husband peg, wife peg, side by side. Facing the road and not looking at each other; for why would they need to, really, having gone beyond the visible surface long ago. No hope of admiring gazes anymore, no chance of unremitting adoration. Nothing left to show but their plain, true, homely, interior selves, which were actually much richer anyhow.