Freedom, I found is not only in the running but in the heart, the mind, the hands.

Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that.

Time was rushing around me like water around a big wet rock. The only difference is, I was not so durable as stones. Very quickly I would be smoothed away.

I truly think that you can't go and stalk your material, you have to leave the door open and whatever chooses you, chooses you. You can't go and wrestle it to the ground.

Here I am, where I ought to be. A writer must have a place where he or she feels this, the place to love and be irritated with.

By writing I can live in ways that I could not survive.

Hunger steals the memory