Logic and faith don't occupy the same side.

My journals were a clearing house - a garbage can. Once I was writing seriously, I understood that this was the stuff that didn't belong in my work.

I remember getting my first cell phone in New York, getting into a taxi and thinking "This is the end of solitude in the back of a taxi." What used to happen in the back of a taxi? You looked out the window. My brain has become less able to spend lengths of time without shifting, and I worry about that.

As a fiction writer, that's been a preoccupation of mine: Can you really just close the door and leave the past back there behind you, or is the door going to blow open at some point?

When I sit down with my notebook, when I start scribbling words across the page, I find out what I’m feeling.

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

My parents made the decision never to focus on my looks, and I had no sense of myself as beautiful.