We read novels because we need stories; we crave them; we can’t live without telling them and hearing them. Stories are how we make sense of our lives and of the world. When we’re distressed and go to therapy, our therapist’s job is to help us tell our story. Life doesn’t come with plots; it’s messy and chaotic; life is one damn, inexplicable thing after another. And we can’t have that. We insist on meaning. And so we tell stories so that our lives make sense.

Pleasure is, after all, a luxury. It's love that's essential.

I was always writing. I just didn't know if I was any good.

I lost my job and started painting houses with a friend. The marriage had ended about the same time the career did.

I think I've learned to be mindful. I may not have taken the time to try to understand narrative techniques, let's say, with any rigor, if I did not also have to try to explain those techniques to someone else.

Novels are written, not wished into existence. You have to sit your ass in the chair or nothing gets done.

The facts, however, are unimportant in fiction. It's not the events of my life that I mine, but the emotional experiences I've had.