He is annoyed with their lack of interest, their blithe ignorance of the arbitrary genetic lottery that has granted them their privileged lives.

I shook my head no. For minutes, neither of us spoke a word. It breathed between us, what he had said, the pain of a life suppressed, of happiness never to be.

But then it passed, as all things do.

Boys, Laila came to see, treated friendship the way they treated the sun: its existence undisputed; its radiance best enjoyed, not beheld directly.

The story of what has happened to women in Afghanistan, however, is a very important one, and fertile ground for fiction.

Writing for me is largely about rewriting.

Writing fiction is the act of weaving a series of lies to arrive at a greater truth.