I think about stories and their logic and wonder if there can be any such thing as simply "there is a book.

For other people, love is like some rare orchid that can only grow in one place under a certain set of conditions. For me it's like bindweed. It grows with no encouragement at all, under any conditions, and just strangles everything else.

Sometimes you have to trust grownups, perhaps more so when they are not there to actually supervise you.

I wonder at what point my life swerved to avoid that, and if that life would have been nicer than the one I've got.

My novels are high concept. I guess big ideas interest me more than, say, the minutiae of domestic life.

Homeopaths argue that water has a memory.

In real life nothing means anything. Stuff happens and there just is no structure.