I've always relied on producing more material than I need. With each of my published novels I've written around four times the amount of material that's ended up in the book.

As soon as you publish a book and the reader reads it, they're making an extension of your brain with their brain.

I kept a lot of my thoughts inside myself. So, perhaps more than is normal, I'm always questioning my role as a writer. I'm always stopping and asking myself: Do I have the right to tell this story? Is it a story that deserves to be heard? And as for whether I think of myself as a Writer with a capital "W," I very much hope I never do.

Sometimes you have to let time carry you past your troubles.

It seems to me that if you were to take almost any half-century in history, you'd find a grand societal tug-of-war between the community and the individual.

If there's a black cat that crosses the street in my path, I will turn around and walk 20 minutes out of my way to not cross it.

I'm always hungry for people.