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.

Writers can write outside their ethnicity or sex depending how open and vulnerable they wish to be.

Strangely, when I totally emerged from this slump I couldn't comprehend how I had almost drowned it it.

I write novellas because I don't like loose sprawling prose.

Marriage is survived just on the basis of ordinary etiquette, day in and day out. Also cooking together helps a lot.

Death steals everything except our stories.

I can maintain my sense of the sacredness of existence only by understanding my own limitations and losing my self-importance.