That was when we smelled the rain. It was so strong it seemed like more than just a smell. When we stretched out our hands we could practically feel it rising up from the ground. I don’t know how a person could ever describe that scent.

When you pick up a novel from the bed side table, you put down your own life at the same time and you become another person for the duration.

Being a novelist and being a mother have exactly coincided in my life: the call from my agent saying that I had a contract for my first novel - that was on my answering phone message when I got back from the hospital with my first child.

Sleeping alone seemed unnatural to me, and pitiful, something done in hospitals or when you're contagious.

The truth needs so little rehearsal.

It seems very safe to me to be surrounded by green growing things and water.

I learned to produce whether I wanted to or not. It would be easy to say oh, I have writer's block, oh, I have to wait for my muse. I don't. Chain that muse to your desk and get the job done.