I have long since decided if you wait for the perfect time to write, you'll never write. There is no time that isn't flawed somehow.

He considers me also a little fragile because artistic. I need to be cared for, like a potted plant.

About no subject are poets tempted to lie so much as about their own lives.

Some people mistakenly think nature is very nice and benevolent and never betrays.

Short forms are returning online. Interactivity is coming back; it was always there in oral storytelling.

The goals of the feminist movement have not been achieved, and those who claim we're living in a post-feminist era are either sadly mistaken or tired of thinking about the whole subject.

Every habit he's ever had is still there in his body, lying dormant like flowers in the desert. Given the right conditions, all his old addictions would burst into full and luxuriant bloom.