Holidays are enticing only for the first week or so. After that, it is no longer such a novelty to rise late and have little to do.

I am rampant with memory.

Why doesn't Prin go and get her own goddamn blistering bloody shitty jelly doughnuts?

Animals are less alone with roaring than we are with all these words.

What goes on inside isn't ever the same as what goes on outside.

If I hadn't had my children, I wouldn't have written more and better, I would have written less and worse.

I've never been able to force a novel. I always had the sense something being given to me. You can't sit around and wait until inspiration strikes, but neither can you force into being something that isn't there.