I didn't feel up to writing about 9/11. If I were to write about it, it would take me years.

I have a theory... that someplace at the heart of most compelling stories is something that doesn't make sense.

I know you can dream your way through an otherwise fine life, and never wake up, which is what I almost did.

Writing never came naturally and I still have to force my hand to do it.

Marry somebody you love and who thinks you being a writer's a good idea.

With imagination, you can put something where nothing was.

For a time after my divorce everything began to seem profoundly ironic to me. I found myself thinking of other peoples' worries as sources of amusement and private derision which I thought about at night to make myself feel better.