Okay, I thought. Here you are. You are here. And you move forward because that's the way it works; that's the only place u can go. You keep going until it stops hurting, or until you find new things to hurt you worse, I guess. And that is the human condition, all of us lurching along in our own private miseries, because that's the way it is. Because, I guess, God didn't give us any choice. You grow up, I remembered Abigail telling me. You learn.

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

I'm not cut out to be a famous person; I can't do my hair and makeup well enough.

If you write chick lit, and if you're a New Yorker, and if your book becomes the topic of pop-culture fascination, the paper might make dismissive and ignorant mention of your book. If you write romance, forget about it. You'll be lucky if they spell your name right on the bestseller list.

If there had been an exercise I'd liked, would I have gotten this big in the first place?

I'd love to spend a day being supermodel beautiful.

My book sales make 'real writers' possible.