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The Writing Lifeexpand_moreMy grandmother read one of my early stories and warned—don’t force your muse.
Most days, at the pool, we are able to leave our troubles on land behind.
In narrative terms, sex is the propeller that moves the story along.
What’s the most useful criticism you’ve received? “Keep writing.”
Henry Chinaski is just so deplorable and lovable; he makes me laugh.
I simply wrapped my arms around Maxey and held on for dear life.
I’ve found that love has provided my life’s happiest moments.
Some goals: stop buying jeans. Stop being angry at mom/dad/sister.
The women wanted signs of regret, but she was straight shouldered.
Having a sister or a friend is like sitting at night in a lighted house.
I do not intend in these pages to put in a plea for this little novel.
That, indeed, is very nearly the whole of the higher artistic process.
I don’t need to consult a healer to feel the aura glowing around us.
The men here don’t know where to place me, call me exotic grail.
Our culture cherishes a fantasy of a certain writerly existence.
If it were fiction, calling the place Newtown would be too much.
Rise the Euphrates, my first novel, grew out of a feverish dream.
The lock surrendered, after a short struggle, to the poker.
We have mysterious inclinations. No one can explain it to us.
Jo had tossed every last wedding photo, wanted no recollection.
What better place to write the great American novel than North Africa?
The ego with which we began filters away as love accumulates below.
That there are five sturdy red Gerber daisies in a jar on the table.
The woman who is known only through a man is known wrong.
Eavan’s death was catastrophic, leaving us all wanting more.
These are notes that please the great heart of man.
The letter both pleased and disturbed her. Why did he get in touch?
