The words carry their own momentum. A confession in motion tends to stay in motion. Newton's first law of jealousy.

I tried to keep myself away from him by using con words like "fidelity" and "adultery", by telling myself that he would interfere with my work, that I had him I'd be too happy to write. I tried to tell myself I was hurting Bennett, hurting myself, making a spectacle of myself. I was. But nothing helped. I was possessed. The minute he walked into a room and smiled at me, I was a goner.

I thought of the nameless inventor of the bathtub. I was somehow sure it was a woman. And was the inventor of the bathtub plug a man?

I want you. I want you. I want you. Anything to avoid saying: I love you.

Poems, like dreams, are a sort of royal road to the unconscious. They tell you what your secret self cannot express.

I think a lot of people, when they read about a woman who acknowledges her sexuality and her feelings, get really scared. They say they want to be fearless, but in reality they're terrified. If they acknowledge their deepest feelings, they might have to change their lives.

Writers are always at the edge of the inferno, and the fire is licking at our toes. Luckily, this turns us on!