The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. Only the oleanders thrived, their delicate poisonous blooms, their dagger green leaves. We could not sleep in the hot dry nights, my mother and I.

No matter how unappealing, each of them imagines he is somehow worthy.

What was the point in such loneliness among people. At least if you were by yourself, you had a good reason to be lonely.

I'm incredibly restless. I read a lot of poetry. I also find myself reading the first 20 pages of everything, looking for something. And you know what? I'm usually looking for the book I'm writing. And it's not out there!

Being in the library is so addictive for me that I really have to exercise self-control so I can get some writing done at home.

I use my fiction to explore my own unconscious issues. I usually don't even know what's going on with me until I'm writing.

If this was a sandalwood pyre she would have thrown herself in and this paper she'd become would have caught fire and she and him could sail away like two birds.