To this day, she’s still sad. Because there’s not some finite amount of pain inside us. Our bodies and minds just keep manufacturing more of it. I’m just saying that I took the pain that was inside of her at that moment and made it my own. And it didn’t hurt me at all.

I don't really distinguish between sympathy and honesty when I'm writing. The two go together - I'm interested in inhabiting my characters, seeing the world through their eyes.

Nothing beats novel writing because it's complete expression of you. You just control everything. Not even a movie director has that level of control.

I think I'm fascinated by the power of religion in our culture. Like a lot of secular, liberal people, I ignored it for a long time. Lately, of course, just from a political perspective, it's impossible to ignore.

The lesson you have to learn as novelist is how to be collaborative, and how to say, "I don't get to dictate this."

I find that even small changes sometimes jog you out of a mental rut.

If anything, he seemed a little lonely, all too ready to open his heart at the slightest sign of interst.