I'm so used to being misunderstood.

At the time I was taught to read, it was an Eden-like time of my life. My mother adored me. Everyone adored me. So I associate reading with enormous pleasure.

"Race." I really can't understand it as anything other than something people say. The people who have said that you and I are both "black" and therefore deserve a certain kind of interaction with the world, they make race. I can't take them seriously.

I read about writers who have routines. They write at certain times of the day. I can't do that. I am always writing-but in my head.

My writing has always been met with derision or dismissal.

I'm sometimes afraid I'll cross a line and it'll be difficult to come back, say, to dinner.

I love planting. I love digging holes, putting plants in, tapping them in. And I love weeding, but I don't like tidying up the garden afterwards.