The fictive is an emormous territory it turns out, its boundaries vague, and there is little certainty about where it begins and ends.

Good books, written by men or women, are ones in which you lose consciousness of the person writing the sentences.

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

Dreams are stories made by and for the dreamer.

Reading is perception as translation. The inert signs of an alphabet become living meanings in the mind.

The fictive is an emormous territory it turns out, its boundaries vague, and there is little certainty about where it begins and ends.

Crippled and crazy, we hobble toward the finish line, pen in hand.