I've just finished my next collection, Possible Side Effects, and I'm now working on a collection of holiday stories as well as a memoir about my relationship with my father.

Like cubic zirconia, I only look real. I'm an imposter. The fact is, I am not like other people.

Throwing things horrified me. I suffered extreme, paralyzing anxiety when it came to anything remotely athletic. I wouldn't even run to catch the school bus because I knew I'd trip and then get teased for a year.

You need to grab your dream out of the sky like it's a kite and pinch the string through your fingers until you reach the spool.

My mother began to go crazy. Not in a 'Let's paint the kitchen red!' sort of way. But crazy in a 'gas oven, toothpaste sandwhich, I am God' sort of way.

My only ritual is to just sit down and write, write every day.

Although I was able to maintain a pleasant expression, I was mentally throwing up in her face.