a certain bohemian, good-witch sort of charm

I remember one morning getting up at dawn, there was such a sense of possibility. You know, that feeling? And I remember thinking to myself: So, this is the beginning of happiness. This is where it starts. And of course there will always be more. It never occurred to me it wasn't the beginning. It was happiness. It was the moment. Right then.

But there are still the hours, aren't there? One and then another, and you get through that one and then, my god, there's another.

I was not ladylike, nor was I manly. I was something else altogether. There were so many different ways to be beautiful.

This is what you do. You make a future for yourself out of the raw material at hand.

Silly humans. Banging on a tub to make a bear dance when we would move the stars to pity.

I revise constantly, as I go along and then again after I've finished a first draft. Few of my novels contain a single sentence that closely resembles the sentence I first set down. I just find that I have to keep zapping and zapping the English language until it starts to behave in some way that vaguely matches my intentions.