God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the patience not to strangle my mother-in-law, chop her into little pieces, and dump them down a sewer.

... somehow I couldn't stop. I had turned into someone that I would have pitied in another life; someone who searched for signs, who analyzed patterns, who went over every word in a conversation looking for hidden meanings, secret signals, the subtext that said, Yes, I still love you, of course I still love you.

The idea you can tell a writer of a specific religion to stop writing about that religion is presumptuous.

They wouldn’t have believed me, and if they had they would have wanted me to explain. And I had no explanation, no answers. When you’re on a battleground, you don’t have the luxury of time to dwell on the various historical factors and sociopolitical influences that caused the war. You just keep your head down and try to survive it, to shove the pages back in the book, close the covers and pretend that nothing’s broken, nothing’s wrong.

People say I'm not good at writing about men. My dad left when I was 16. Give me a break. I'm doing the best I can.

I don't particularly like being angry about stuff. I'd rather hang out with my daughter and write my little books.

I don't like futons. They can't commit. I'm a bed! I'm a couch! I'm a bed! I'm a couch!