All That Means Is That It Wasn't

I Try To Write Parts For Women That Are As Complicated And Interesting As Women Actually Are.

If Pregnancy Were A Book, They Would Cut The Last Two Chapters. The Beginning Is Glorious, Especially If You're Lucky Enough Not To Have Morning Sickness And If, Like Me, You've Had Small Breasts All Your Life. Suddenly They Begin To Grow, And You've Got Them, You've Really Got Them, Breasts, Darling Breasts, And When You Walk Down The Street They Bounce, Truly They Do, They Bounce Bounce Bounce.

I Am A Writer And A Feminist, And The Two Seem To Be Constantly In Conflict.... Ever Since I Became Loosely Involved With It, It Has Seemed To Me One Of The Recurring Ironies Of This Movement That There Is No Way To Tell The Truth About It Without, In Some Small Way, Seeming To Hurt It.

It Had Better Be Quirky Or Perverse Or Thoughtful Enough So That You Hit Some Chord In Them. I Mean We've All Read Pieces Where We Thought, 'oh, Who Gives A Damn.'

You Can't Retrieve You Life (unless You're On Wikipedia, In Which Case You Can Retrieve An Inaccurate Version Of It).