I write a lot in my head. The revision goes on internally. It's not spontaneous and it doesn't have a schedule.

I'll read anything. In fact, I'll read while I'm doing other things, which is not a good idea.

Habit gives endurance, and fatigue is the best night cap.

I wrote home to say how lovely everything was, and I used flourishing words and phrases, as if I were living life in a greeting card - the kind that has a satin ribbon on it, and quilted hearts and roses, and is expected to be so precious to the person receiving it that the manufacturer has placed a leaf of plastic on the front to protect it.

When I write a book, I hope to be beyond mortal by the time I'm finished.

I don't feel I'm angry. I feel as though I'm describing something true. If I had stabbed my husband, I could understand being called "angry." If I had an affair with my husband's best friend and written about that experience, I could see the anger. But I'm not doing that.

It is true that our skin is sort of more or less the same shade. But is it true that our skin color makes us a distinctive race? No.