It troubles me that people speak about writing for money as ugly and distasteful.

The portrait of my parents is a complicated one, but lovingly drawn.

Nothing like being visible, publishing one's work, and speaking openly about one's life, to disabuse the world of the illusion of one's perfection and purity.

I have no doubt that over the years my children will find plenty of things about me to criticize. But something tells me that twenty years from now not one of them will sit on some therapist's couch complaining because their mother didn't spend enough time vacuuming up glitter.

No, I said. I didn't remember that. There was so much to remember, sometimes the best thing was to forget.

Although Salinger had long since cut me out of his life completely and made it plain that he had nothing but contempt for me, the thought of becoming the object of his wrath was more than I felt ready to take on.

For 25 years, I did take my responsibilities as a pleaser of others sufficiently seriously.