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

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.

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

The language of the novel differs from the just-the-facts language of the old tales. It's robust and earthy, sometimes even baroque.

As we change, the way in which we are perceived in terms of our relevance, our value, our beauty, and sexual potency changes.

I never know where I'm headed when I'm working on a book.

Things, very strange things, happen in folktales and there is never much attention given to the whys and wherefores.