I wanted to be an archaeologist. But in school you have to take a tremendous amount of statistics for that, and I am not good at statistics. So I hit a real wall with archaeology. It's probably like wanting to be an architect - you think it's all fun and games, and then you have to get out a calculator and you're done.

Since graduation, I have measured time in 4-by-5-inch pieces of paper, four days on the left and three on the right. Every social engagement, interview, reading, flight, doctor's appointment, birthday and dry-cleaning reminder has been handwritten between metal loops.

I don't understand how you can be a decent writer and not know people.

As most New Yorkers have done, I have given serious and generous thought to the state of my apartment should I get killed during the day.

Time grabs you by the scruff of your neck and drags you forward. You get over it, of course. Everyone was right about that. One mathematically insignificant day, you stop hoping for happiness and become actually happy.

The truth is, I wrote a novel when I was 23. It's hideously bad. Truly rotten.

Not all shabby is chic, just like not every porn actor is a star.