We are tyrannized by our options.

The only graceful thing to do is recognize and embrace what is actually happening, rather than fight against it.

When I was writing my first novel, I smoked cigarettes. And when I think about what it was like to smoke, I remember exactly the feeling of sitting in front of my big old computer in that little room where I wrote my first novel.

I found myself doing so much public speaking, more and more and bigger and bigger.

If we grew up with nothing, we're complicated with that. That's the thing I keep hearing from people.

In my life as a wife and mother, I'm always conscious of my desire to be present.

A writer with her work needs to be like a dog with a bone all the time. She needs to know where she's hidden it. Where she's stored the good stuff. She needs to keep gnawing at it, even after all the meat seems to be gone. When a student of mine says (okay, whines) that she's impatient, or tired, or the worst: isn't it good enough? this may be harsh, but she loses just a little bit of my respect. Because there is no room for impatience, or exhaustion, or self-satisfaction, or laziness. All of these really mean, simply, that the inner censor has won the day.