The world, a tired performer, offers us another half-assed season.

I remember liking to write stories pretty early on. In fourth or fifth grade, they would give us the beginning of a story, and we were supposed to finish it. I remember liking that. But I didn't think about deciding to become a writer until high school at about the age of 16.

Now all the mute objects of my life seem to tell my story, to stretch back in time, if I look closely enough.

Where else would she feel more comfortable than in this subterranean realm where people wrote down what they couldn't say, where they gave voice to their most shameful longings and knowledge?

The television replaced the sound of conversation that was missing from my grandparents' lives.

It took courage to let things fall apart so beautifully.

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.