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 home because I am a writer, but sometimes, when I'm not productive (productivity: the expectations of capitalism), I feel like a terrible housewife, or a sick person.

I always remember my childhood as traumatic, for various reasons; I always felt alienated, outside.

I think genius can have a lot to do with nerve. And permission.

The biographies of the great men see their excesses as signs of their greatness.

It is only through having a stable loving partnership that I began to feel in control enough to attempt a strict writing discipline, to realize something I always knew was simmering underneath.

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