I started a short story but it was so dreary that even my pen threw up.
Fear’s greatest weapon is its ability to blind one to anything. In its presence, we forget there are others to consider, things to save besides ourselves.
I forgive nothing. If you stole my orange crayon in the fifth grade, you’re still on my hit list, buddy.
Everything you want in life has teeth.
If you are very lucky, you’re allowed to be in certain places during just the right season of your life: by the sea for the summer when you’re seven or eight and full of the absolute need to swim until dark and exhaustion close their hands together, cupping you in between.
Kids own nothing. Everything is either promised, borrowed, longed for or exaggerated.
At a Boston signing, someone from the audience asked why I was so obsessed with furniture in my books. The question rattled around in my head. I had no idea that I was obsessed with furniture.
Far more disturbing than any spook house at an amusement park is a ride through the old hometown if you’ve been away for years.
Dogs are here to remind us life really is a simple thing. You eat, sleep, take walks, and pee when you must. That’s about all there is. They are quick to forgive trespasses and assume strangers will be kind.
Time talks behind our back. To our face it’s friendly and logical, never hesitating to give more of itself. But when we’re not looking, it steals our lives and says bad things about us to the parts of us it’s stolen.
Old people are often impatient, but for what?
The keys that unlock the heart are made of funny materials: a disarming phrase that comes out of the blue, nowhere, a certain sexy walk that sends you reeling, the way someone hums when she is alone. My father said it was the way my mother danced with him.
Your boyfriend had a dream about potatoes and you’re asking me to interpret it? I’m just old. Being old doesn’t mean you know more; it means you ate enough fiber.
I had always liked blind dates. If nothing else, it was an interesting way of discovering what people thought of you.
There’s almost always a point in a book where something happens that triggers the rest of the plot.
I feel like a cliche.
Most men think they are good drivers. Most women think they are good in bed. They aren’t.
Some people are like blue jeans- the older and more beat up they get, the better they look.
Just write about what bites you and damn the rest.
If I don’t feel like writing today or for a few days, I don’t. And I don’t think about it. It is not an obligation-it is the greatest privilege.