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

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

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

I guess I'm drawn to stories of people whose physicality puts them on the outside of things in order to explore the ways in which an identity is formed around these prevailing attitudes.

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

We grow, we mature, some of us give birth, we age, we die.

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