I write so much because my cat sits on my lap. She purrs so I don't want to get up. She's so much more calming than my husband.

I am more or less reading all the time.

The act of sending a letter is an act of generosity, even if, in retrospect, it might seem reckless. Why regret one's generosity? Why regret one's impulsiveness, one's misjudgment of others? The inevitable discovery that someone is selling letters you'd written in trust is simply to discover an obvious human truth: there are those who don't cherish us as we'd cherished them, and had wished to be cherished by them.

Truths are the last thing you learn about your family. By the time you learn, you're no longer their child.

Art is fueled by rebellion: the need, in some amounting to obsessions, to resist what is, to defy one's elders, even to the point of ostracism; to define oneself, and by extension one's generation, as new, novel, ungovernable.

Self-criticism, like self-administered brain surgery, is perhaps not a good idea. Can the 'self' see the 'self' with any objectivity?

An actress wants to be seen. An actress wants to be loved. By multitudes of people, not just one lone man.