In this moment that blooms and fades as it passes, he is enough, and all is well in the world.

I think that writers have natural canvases, and my canvas, even in short stories, often seems to be the scope of a life.

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

I try not to think too much or be too impatient, and let the back of my brain do its mysterious work.

You had to pick up a landline to make sure your best friend wore a matching outfit to school. I do remember people talking more. Nostalgia is dangerous, though.

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.

I'm kind of a control freak. But there are others like me.