I tried writing fiction as a little kid, but had a teacher humiliate me, so didn't write again until I was a senior in college.

history only existed in the human mind, subject to endless revision. 'each man kills the thing he loves'-Oscar Wilde. You kill it before it kills you, but he was wrong. you killed it by accident. thinking you were doing something else. shattering, when all you wanted to do was keep it safe.

No matter where I was, my compass pointed west. I would always know what time it was in California.

I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hand.

Panic was the worst thing. When you panicked, you couldn't see possibilities. Then came despair.

After all the fears, the warnings, after all, a woman's mistakes are different from a girl's. They are written by fire on stone. They are a trait and not an error.

I'm always gratified when I check something I've made up and discover that I've gotten it right. How can we imagine something that turns out to be true? How can we know things we couldn't possibly know? It makes me wonder about the existence of a collective unconscious.