I have almost never been compared to male writers in any review. All women.

She smoked because she craved something to do with her hands, that delicate interplay of light and cup and first inhale. Craved the repetition of it. It was so difficult sometimes to be still in a room, alone with oneself. To bare oneself to the lonely.

One of my moments of coming to writing, of needing to write to attempt to create myself, to attempt to absolve and understand my past passivity, came when a girl I loved very much, who I had been estranged from for some time, killed herself.

My rage and sense of alienation as to how women have been written, have allowed themselves to be written, in so many ways, has political roots.

I am worthy of being read. I mean, one has to be convinced of one's genius.

The hope in literature is that we are allowed to be imperfect, to write of our imperfection, without being overly critiqued for being unlikeable.

My writing has always been considered extremely important, even though I make slim-to-no money at it.