I still write with pen and paper and have someone type it on a computer. But rewriting I do by hand.

Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released.

I wonder if I don't give too much of myself to writing: I am always half where I am; the other half is feeding the furnace, kick-starting the heat of creativity. I am making love with someone but at the same time I'm noticing how this graceful hand across my belly might just fit in with the memory of lilacs in Albuquerque in 1974.

Women need space and silence. We too quickly give away our energy. There's something about holding that richness.

We shouldn't forget that the universe moves with us, is at our back with everything we do.

All of us can create if we allow ourselves to.

I remember a friend many years ago who had taped a sign to his refrigerator: There's a dream dreaming us. If you try to think about what that means it makes your mind silly, but that silliness is good.