I don't think there was a particular book that made me want to write. They all did. I always wanted to write.

Back and forth she went each morning by the river, spring arriving once again; foolish, foolish spring, breaking open its tiny buds, and what she couldn’t stand was how—for many years, really—she had been made happy by such a thing. She had not thought she would ever become immune to the beauty of the physical world, but there you were. The river sparkled with the sun that rose, enough that she needed her sunglasses.

Without a doubt my mother was an inspiration for my writing. This is true in many ways, but mostly because she is a wonderful storyteller, without even knowing it.

She didn't like to be alone. Even more, she didn't like being with people. (148)

I'm so interested in the fact that we really don't know anybody. We think we know the people close to us, but we don't, we really don't.

I love theater. I love sitting in an audience and having the actors right there, playing out what it means to be a human being.

Oh, gosh, Olive. I'm so embarrassed." "No need to be," Olive tells her. "We all want to kill someone at some point." (179)