I want, I want, I want! We never grow out of it somehow. Unless we become Buddhists, maybe.

I came to realize this weird projection: you are much more passionate about hating something outside of you when you know that something is also in you.

If you've been in a symbolic struggle long enough, even when the struggle is over, you don't know it's over.

Particularly in relationship to my father - there's something that daughters, girl children, do almost instinctually in their relationships with their father, so that physically, those boundaries must be respected and never crossed.

If I could write a novel while I'm walking, I probably would.

Agency over one's sexual self - and the articulation of that kind of agency - might seem transgressive to readers who don't expect it in a woman's text.

My muse is very often, in my mind, a nagger. She nags me.