Many writers over the centuries simply do not have the reputations they deserve because they were female, and that is an act of suppression.

Memory offers up its gifts only when jogged by something in the present. It isn't a storehouse of fixed images and words, but a dynamic associative network in the brain that is never quiet and is subject to revision each time we retrieve an old picture or old words.

Dreams are stories made by and for the dreamer, and each dreamer has his own folds to open and knots to untie.

Being a mother is complicated because its not just a paternal culture making demands on you; its those internal demands and expectations that women have and are self-generated.

We lose ourselves in stories; that's the beauty of literary art.

There is this assumption that much of what I write is about my life, and that simply is not true.

The faculty of memory cannot be separated from the imagination. They go hand in hand. To one degree or another, we all invent our personal pasts. And for most of us those pasts are built from emotionally colored memories.