We are like flowers always reaching up towards some shred of light. I find this wondrous, nearly magical, certainly brave.

Writing, for me, is always a dance between the critical part of my brain and the subconscious.

The story has to flow from an unstructured, felt place, but then I have to bring my analytical brain to bear on issues of craft.

I'm interested in endurance. People persist in the face of the most excruciating hardships.

But every age deserves its fashion and its forms, and no one can control what survives.

We are like flowers always reaching up towards some shred of light. I find this wondrous, nearly magical, certainly brave.

Why did people try to shush trouble away as if it were an unruly child?