There are certain prehistoric things that swim beyond extinction.

I think that's the real horror story for me, how little you can ever really know about your own motivations. How in the dark we all are about the concerns and the contents of our minds.

I'm probably a lot closer than perhaps the contents of my early fiction suggest to a jaded Denny's waitress with smoker's-lung-black humor than a ghost hunter.

I would love to travel around the world working for a travel company taking students abroad on cultural immersion trips.

It remains unbelievable to me that I have any readers beyond my own blood relations - it's a crazy, wild gift.

For me, the term "literary fiction" means there's always attention paid to language, and linguistic experimentation, sophistication.

Whenever someone asks me about fantasy versus realism, I'm like, "I don't know, guys. Did we not all just descend into some underworld, watch strangers from our past kaleidoscope through us according to some pattern that is both illogical and has its own strange melting truth, and then wake up and have a Pop-Tart?" Why are we talking about fantasy and reality like they're opposed?