I used to get criticized for putting food in novels.

As an English major I was familiar with the stories of dozens of writers trying to get their work done among the multifarious diversions of the world and the hurdles of their own vices. A professor had said that what saved writers is that they, like politicians, had the illusion of destiny that allowed them to overcome obstacles no matter how nominal their work.

I wonder, when a writer's blocked and doesn't have any resources to pull himself out of it, why doesn't he jump in his car and drive around the U.S.A.? I went last winter for seven thousand miles and it was lovely. Inexpensive, too.

The days are stacked against what we think we are.

Barring love I'll take my life in large doses alone--rivers, forests, fish, grouse, mountains. Dogs.

I don't see gender as the most significant fact of human existence.

The answer is always in the entire story, not a piece of it.