I feel prettier with a naked face and ChapStick. But a good haircut makes a huge difference.

Here's who it's okay to share a bed with: . . . A heating pad. An empty bag of pita chips. The love of your life.

I just don't want to be around people who don't hate everything in their life right now.

I started writing plays, but the fact that plays don't last forever was too much for me to bear.

My parents are artists; in their world, in the world of modern artists, you are supposed to just go into your studio and tune everything out, and your entire relationship with your work is supposed to be a super private one. That was the way to do it and you weren't deeply truly artistic if that wasn't the way you were engaging the press.

I don't think anyone would want to come to my gallery show.

The fact is that I write under duress, often in my bed, often at the last minute. I'm kind of a binge writer I would say, which I don't support. I was always kind of that way. Probably the time I was the most regular as a writer was college. It was like, what else is there to do when you're living in the Midwest studying creative writing?