I feel like a lot of life is distasteful and embarrassing. And you just push through it. You fix what you can, and you let time pass.

Perhaps this is how you know you're doing the thing you're intended to: No matter how slow or how slight your progress, you never feel that it's a waste of time.

Probably I, like a lot of people, became a writer in imitation of or in homage to the books I enjoyed. When you're so captivated by something, you think, could I do that? Hmm, let me try

We all make mistakes, don't we? But if you can't forgive yourself, you'll always be an exile in your own life.

People who think my books are autobiographical, which they're not, credit me with having a much better memory than I do. I do, however, have a powerful imagination

I don't really have special rituals, but I don't try to write fiction unless I have a minimum of a few hours. For me, it takes a while to settle into a mode where I'm truly concentrating

We have to make mistakes, its how we learn compassion for others

I always worried someone would notice me, and then when no one did, I felt lonely.

Obviously the bar is much higher now for a behavior to be scandalous. Social media has really changed the way people live. It's not a new impulse; it's just being enacted in a new way.

I don't think it's shameful to admit that some days your time can be better spent reading than writing.

I have this theory that the likeability question comes up so much more with female characters created by female authors than it does with male characters and male authors

For me, living means I can be responsive to the other person. It means I can show my emotions and my feelings. Talk to them. Feel with them …

The more Wayne inhabited Edison, the more he wondered how a man cultivates a stubborn streak so pronounced that it transforms a daily barrage of failures into stimulants.

Also, I'll lose half a liter of water per day to breathing until the humidity in the Hab reaches its maximum and water starts condensing on every surface. Then I'll be licking the walls. Yay.

As a child, I was bonkers for Christmas. The entire month of December, I couldn't sleep at night from anticipation.

The wild woman is fluent in the language of dreams, images, passion, and poetry.

He who interrupts the course of his spiritual exercises and prayer is like a man who allows a bird to escape from his hand; he can hardly catch it again.

I prefer to live in my own little bubble of my own reality.

I had no way to have a sense of humor about The Exorcist. I didn't know how. And this enabled me.

That's one of the things about being married to a couple of musicians, I have got great iPods. That's what I was left with -- an iPod each.

Do you know who I am? Why, have you forgotten?