When you stand outside, you look around and find that the people you're with live on the fringes.

I hum some secret place into being, thinking of this other me, the one that only I can see, a girl called She, who is not We, a girl who I will never be.

What is it about sadness that can be so fulfilling?

I was in the emergency room twice with heart palpitations and panic attacks. As one of my actor friends pointed out: your body doesn't know that you're making art. You think about struggle and challenge and you imagine yourself weighing 302 pounds and being restricted and in despair. Your body doesn't know that that's not the case.

If you don't like something about yourself, change it. If you're OK with it, you gotta own it. There's nothing in between.

The world's waistlines are expanding, but it's an epidemic of a larger issue in terms of our bounty having become our burden.

I feel, holding books, accommodating their weight and breathing their dust, an abiding love. I trust them, in a way that I can't trust my computer, though I couldn't do without it. Books are matter. My books matter. What would I have done through these years without the library and all its lovely books?