If you could press a button and your ego investment was less, the toothache would be less. Or less tragic at least.

My heart goes out to him. Sort of. Because empathy depends on how you've spent your day.

That's one of the reasons I take a lot of consolation in fiction. You have years to work on it. I think that allows you to reach for the best part of your reader instead of a lot of the internet stuff, in which you're kind of reaching for the worst or the most shallow part of your reader.

It really strikes me how much of your energy in America, especially if you're from a working back-ground, is spent just keeping your head above water. It really saps your grace and your strength.

That's what a story must feel like to me. It's not, "I want to write about a gravedigger." But you're walking along and - boop! shovel. "Ok, what does one do with a shovel? Digs a hole. Why? I don't know yet. Dig the hole! Oh, look a body."

What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness.

I'm not a natural criticizer - I prefer to like and praise and so on.