I Always Knew I Wanted It To

It Make One's Mouth Hurt To Speak With Such Forced Merriment.

I Felt Uncomfortable Calling Myself A Writer Until I Started With 'the New Yorker,' And Then I Was Like, 'okay, Now You Can Call Yourself That.

I Don't Think My Life Is More Interesting Than Anybody Else's.

It Can Take Years. With The First Draft, I Just Write Everything. With The Second Draft, It Becomes So Depressing For Me, Because I Realize That I Was Fooled Into Thinking I'd Written The Story. I Hadn't-i Had Just Typed For A Long Time. So Then I Have To Carve Out A Story From The 25 Or So Pages. It's In There Somewhere-but I Have To Find It. I'll Then Write A Third, Fourth, And Fifth Draft, And So On.

I Hoped Our Lives Would Continue This Way Forever, But Inevitably The Past Came Knocking. Not The Good Kind That Was Collectible But The Bad Kind That Had Arthritis.