Regret, already sogging me down, burst its dam. It seeped into my legs, it pooled in my heart.

I always work in a room where there's no Internet to keep from being distracted so easily.

She was a large, disordered woman, like a child's drawing that didn't stay within the lines.

There's a kind of acting that goes on in my head when I'm writing a character where I put myself in their place.

I want an ending that’s satisfying. I’m more of a classical writer than a modernist one in that I want the ending to be coherent and feel like an ending. I don’t like when it just seems to putter out. I mean, life is chaotic enough.

We couldn't imagine the emptiness of a creature who put a razor to her wrists and opened her veins, the emptiness and the calm.

I'm constantly having doubts and moments of depression and then excitement and then back into the slough of despond.