Maybe it's easier to think about dishonesty and what kind of trouble you can get into as a writer when love and honesty collide and you sidestep that collision, either because you want to protect somebody or you want to blame somebody - which are the usual impulses in love: protection and blame, frequently at the same time - so you don't exactly tell the truth.

When I was growing up, there were no cell phones and no roads into the bush, and so if something happened to your plane, that was serious. Nobody was coming to rescue you.

There are still things out there in the universe to contemplate and spend our lives chasing.

I would hit a scene about my mother screaming at me during her breakdown, drunk or using pills, and she'd turn into a monster. Which she wasn't. She was a human: somebody who loved me and somebody with a problem.

I don't think many kids question their surroundings. Everything seems so permanent and inevitable growing up, even chaos.

My mom was a social worker. I had a pretty good idea of what the authorities can do when a parent's not around.

If you need somebody to dig up rocks eight hours a day underwater, call me.