I always thought it was the saddest and most devastating ending. How you could have these enormous dreams that never get met. How without knowing it you could just make yourself smaller over time. I don't want that to happen to me.

Both my mother and I have close groups of friends that include other writers, and these friendships are very important to us.

We are all here, on this earth for only one go around. And everyone thinks their purpose is to just find their passion. But perhaps our purpose is to find what other people need.

People like to warn you that by the time you reach the middle of your life, passion will begin to feel like a meal eaten long ago, which you remember with great tenderness.

For me, a novel relying too heavily on a single idea might be a dry, deadly thing unless it possesses an animating force.

I have never been much of a researcher

Just the act of sleeping beside someone you liked to be with. Maybe that was love.