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

After a certain age, you felt a need not to be alone. It grew stronger, like a radio frequency, until finally it was so powerful that you were forced to do something about it.

When I wrote The Interestings, I wanted to let time unspool, to give the book the feeling of time passing. I had to allow myself the freedom to move back and forth in time freely, and to trust that readers would accept this.

The generation that had information, but no context. Butter, but no bread. Craving, but no longing.

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

In The Interestings I wanted to write about what happens to talent over time. In some people talent blooms, in others it falls away.

But, she knew, you didn’t have to marry your soulmate, and you didn’t even have to marry an Interesting. You didn’t always need to be the dazzler, the firecracker, the one who cracked everyone up, or made everyone want to sleep with you, or be the one who wrote and starred in the play that got the standing ovation. You could cease to be obsessed with the idea of being interesting.