I write a lot by sound. One sound leads me to another. These sounds aren't random; they have their own logic.

Women are defined by their biography, and men are sacrosanct from their biography.

Women have waited millions of years, growing separate as another species, with visions and priorities no man-words, no man-measurements can comprehend.

All my friends are artists, so I am used to collective agony as a mode.

Just being in a room with myself is almost more stimulation than I can bear.

If you can be anything else but a writer, be it.

Like I'm dragging bundles of old clothes? I'm carrying artifacts that breathe fire. I'm talking about a language of smoke. These are three-dimensional creatures that can mate. I'd no more leave them go by the side of the trail than I would my child. I'll carry them until someone amputates my arms.