Our Human Impulse Is To

She Would Always Feel This Wild Girl Was The Truest Of Any Of The People She Had Already Been: Adored Daughter, Bourgeois Priss, Rebel, Runaway, Dope-fiend San Francisco Hippie; Or All The People She Would Later Be: Mother, Nurse, Religious Fanatic, Prematurely Old Woman. Vivienne Was A Human Onion, And When I Came Home At Twenty Eight Years Old On The Day The Monster Died, I Was Afraid That The Baptist Freak She Had Peeled Down To Was Her True, Acrid, Tear-inducing Core.

When I Write New Worlds, I Work In Layers, Building And Throwing Out, And Building Anew.

I Love Twitter. It's Like Having A Closet Full Of Clever Friends That You Can Visit Twice A Day, Then Shove Back Into The Darkness When You're Tired Of Them.

Fiction Is Always A Utopian Task, In That There's An Ideal You Hold In Your Head As You Write Which Inevitably Fails In The Moment Of Creation, In The Insufficiency Of Words To Convey Meaning, Or In The Way The Work Is Completed In The Reader's Head.

I Feel Like In American Fiction We're Moving Out Of A Period Of Intense Irony, And I'm Very Glad About That. I Feel Like Irony Is Fine For Its Own Sake But Shouldn't Be The Sole Reason To Write A Book. It Has Been An Ironic World View: That's The Best Way I Can Describe It. I'm A Fan Of Earnestness. I Feel Like There's A New Wave Of Earnestness And I'd Be Happy If I'm Some Small Part Of That.