Realism is to fiction what gravity is to walking: a confinement that allows dancing under the right circumstances.

There's a really nice moment in the life of a piece of writing where the writer starts to get a feeling of it outgrowing him - or he starts to see it having a life of its own that doesn't have anything to do with his ego or his desire to 'be a good writer'.

I think when you get to export your creative impulse into something, it kind of lessens that busy energy that can be so confrontational and pissy.

There comes that phase in life when, tired of losing, you decide to stop losing, then continue losing. Then you decide to really stop losing, and continue losing. The losing goes on and on so long you begin to watch with curiosity, wondering how low you can go.

Kindness, it turns out, is hard - it starts out all rainbows and puppy dogs, and expands to include . . . well, EVERYTHING.

She said America was a spoiled child ignorant of grief.

The idea of inclusion has become kind of a stone that we've passed our hand over so many times that it doesn't mean anything.