Our imaginations are strong as children. Sometimes they get shoved aside, these imaginations. They get dusty and mildewed with age. The imagination is a muscle that has to be put to use or it shrivels.

The fact is there are many women who nod politely, even agree openly within their male-dominated often highly educated cultures, but vote their own minds.

My oldest sister was an actress living in NYC by the time I was ten, and desperately wanted to be the one in charge of the words.

Our love is our burden.

The intricacy of plotting a thriller is akin to writing formal poetry.

First, you hand over some basics-overwhelming joy, existential angst, a giving-in to desire, etc. And then you promise to withstand talking idly about the weather, to encourage cliché, to uphold the virtues of average. You hand over the need to be understood and, in return, you get a bar of Normal soap. And you can wash in it and be daily reborn to a safe world of modest, enduring love or, at least, mild, well-mannered bonding.

Each genre has something to teach me about the others. Not all the lessons are transferable, but many of the most important ones are.