Maybe it's what we don't say/that saves us.

There is so much about the process of writing that is mysterious to me, but this one thing I've found to be true: writing begets writing.

That's how it is sometimes--God comes to your window, all bright light and black wings, and you're just too tired to open it.

Joseph [Millar] is much more disciplined than I am. He's up every morning meditating, then he writes, and he reads throughout the day. He probably reads ten books to my two and writes twice as much as I do.

When you have worked with people all day who have so little and struggle to make it stretch, who live outside the rarefied, you are humbled.

If you want to be a writer in the world you really have to sit down and say, 'Why do I want to do this and why was I drawn to it to begin with?' And keep reminding yourself to return to that original impulse.

And I saw it didn't matter who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone. The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty of the Iranian attendant, the thickening clouds--nothing was mine. And I understood finally, after a semester of philosophy, a thousand books of poetry, after death and childbirth and the startled cries of men who called out my name as they entered me, I finally believed I was alone, felt it in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo like a thin bell.