Books exist for me not as physical entities with pages and binding, but in the province of my mind.

She wishes her grandmother had not been so protective, and that she understood better what passes between a man and woman. As it is, she simply enjoys the feelings and wonders if they are what lightning is made of, for everything comes back to the weather. Tears like rain. Smiles like the sun. Hair as dry as sand and fear like the dark ocean.

Writers of novels live in a strange world where what's made up is as important as what's real.

Writing about the 1950s has given me tremendous respect for my mother's generation.

For a novelist, the gaps in a story are as intriguing as material that still exists.

It is through our extended family that we first learn to compromise and come to an understanding that even if we don't always agree about things we can still love and look out for each other.

Researching books gets you into nothing but trouble.