By the end of the first decade of writing, I considered myself a confirmed failure in the eyes of the world.

I realized I was never going to have any peace with myself unless I made an honest stab at trying to write.

I got brilliant stories from people who'd never set foot in an MFA program and had published very little, and terrible stories from people who'd published a lot and had all the credentials. It was all over the map and that was part of the fun.

I think if you spend much time dwelling on influence you can get self-conscious about every line you write. That's a great way to freeze up.

Somewhere along the way America became a giant mall with a country attached.

From about the age of 15 or 16 I'd had the notion that I wanted to write fiction, and I'd done enough in college to satisfy myself that I had a knack for it - I wouldn't call it "talent" - though I wondered if I'd ever have the guts to actually commit to it.

Eruptions of talent continue to happen in Haiti, in spite of everything.