For years I wrote in my basement. More recently I graduated to one floor above, an office with all my books and music and - ta da! - a window.

Why are we embarassed by silence? What comfort do we find in all the noise?

Suddenly, details seemed extremely important. Details were something to grab on to, a way to insert myself into the story.

Mothers support certain illusions about their children, and one of my illusions was that I liked who I was, because she did. When she passed away, so did that idea.

Love- the infatuation kind- 'he's so handsome, she's so beautiful'- that can shrivel. As soon as something goes wrong, that kind of love can fly out the window.

Going back to something is harder than you think.

When someone is in your heart, they're never truly gone. They can come back to you, even at unlikely times.