Truth be told, there is not one day that goes by when I don't fall in love with someone, with something.

One of the strangest things about writing well is that it requires two different zones in the brain--rigor and recklessness--simultaneously.

Deliriously imagined, The Mothering Coven is a work of wonder. Joanna Ruocco arrives: marvelous, and fully sprung!

The future will be gorgeous and reckless, and words, those luminous charms, will set us free again.

Huddled around the fire of the alphabet.

How I love them. How good they are. They endure endless hours of me talking about the future. They keep me near and at the same time bid me farewell. That is what real love is.

If writing is language and language is desire and longing and suffering . . . then why when we write, when we make shapes on paper, why then does it so often look like the traditional, straight models, why does our longing look for example like John Updike's longing?