I once saw a picture in the paper of John Hegley with 'poet' written on his knuckles, and I thought that was pretty cool, so I was quite up front about it.

I wonder how many ways there are for a mother to produce that wreckage in her own daughter, and my muscles tense as I think of them.

Now that I've had a book published, it is quite validating, but a bit embarrassing.

If nobody speaks of remarkable things, how can they be called remarkable?

Last week I was just someone who had had a first novel published.

Everybodys got their own situation and their own needs.

There are so many people in the world, and I want to know them all but I don’t even know my next-door neighbor’s name.