Here I am, a product of something really vicious, product of the Atlantic slave trade. And yet, I give nary a thought to some of the awful things happening right now in the world.

The shadow of my mother danced around the room to a tune that my own shadow sang.

Every time I end a book, I look down at myself.

People think if you describe someone with glistening brown skin you're writing about race, as if the whole of the African diaspora is in someone's brown skin.

That was the moment he got the idea he possessed me in a certain way, and that was the moment I grew tired of him.

For me, writing isn't a way of being public or private; it's just a way of being. The process is always full of pain, but I like that. It's a reality, and I just accept it as something not to be avoided. This is the life I have. This is the life I write about.

I would be lost without the feeling of antagonism that people have towards me. I write out of defiance.