I really enjoy doing both, but I didn't write nonfiction until 1994.

Patty knew, in her heart, that he was wrong in his impression of her. And the mistake she went to go on to make, the really big life mistake, was to go along with Walter's version of her in spite of knowing that it wasn't right. He seemed so certain of her goodness that eventually he wore her down.

The pain was quite extraordinary. And yet also weirdly welcome and restorative, bringing him news of his aliveness and his caughtness in a story larger than himself.

You see more sitting still than chasing after.

I was about 13, in some ways, when I wrote the first book. Approximately 18 when I wrote the second.

This evening I begin a notebook. If anyone reads this, I trust they will forgive my overuse of "I". I can't stop it. I'm writing this.

Twitter is unspeakably irritating. Twitter stands for everything I oppose.