He was wondering if there was some cryptic, cultish mark on his door that told all the crazy people he'd have trouble saying no.

...it's closeness that does you in. Never get too close to people, son.

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.

I didn't really choose to write; I more or less fell into it.

I just want to be told a story, and I want to believe I'm living that story, and I don't give a thought to influences or method or any other writerly concerns

I write because I want more than one life; I insist on a wider selection. It's greed, plain and simple.

I hated childhood, and spent it sitting behind a book waiting for adulthood to arrive.