Here, though, there is nothing. Nothing at all. The sky seems empty even when I am looking at the moon and stars.

When you write, it’s like braiding your hair. Taking a handful of coarse unruly strands and attempting to bring them unity. Your fingers have still not perfected the task. Some of the braids are long, others are short. Some are thick, others are thin. Some are heavy. Others are light. Like the diverse women of your family. Those whose fables and metaphors, whose similes and soliloquies, whose diction and je ne sais quoi daily slip into your survival soup, by way of their fingers.

If a woman is worth remembering,' said my grandmother, 'there is no need to have her name carved in letters.

Whole interaction between the storyteller and the listeners had a very powerful influence on me.

It's interesting to see people overcome things. Because if you didn't overcome, you wouldn't be writing it.

I'm happy to be part of this chorus of people who are trying to tell more complex stories about Haiti.

I am very timid about speaking for the collective. I can say what I see, I can say what I've heard, I can say what I feel, but I can't speak for - no one can speak for - 10 million people, and it takes away something from them if you make yourself their voice.