I Try Not To Think Too Much

She Would Always Feel This Wild Girl Was The Truest Of Any Of The People She Had Already Been: Adored Daughter, Bourgeois Priss, Rebel, Runaway, Dope-fiend San Francisco Hippie; Or All The People She Would Later Be: Mother, Nurse, Religious Fanatic, Prematurely Old Woman. Vivienne Was A Human Onion, And When I Came Home At Twenty Eight Years Old On The Day The Monster Died, I Was Afraid That The Baptist Freak She Had Peeled Down To Was Her True, Acrid, Tear-inducing Core.

I Kept A Lot Of My Thoughts Inside Myself. So, Perhaps More Than Is Normal, I'm Always Questioning My Role As A Writer. I'm Always Stopping And Asking Myself: Do I Have The Right To Tell This Story? Is It A Story That Deserves To Be Heard? And As For Whether I Think Of Myself As A Writer With A Capital "w," I Very Much Hope I Never Do.

My Son Is Actually Named After Beck, The Musician. We Heard Beck On The Radio And Thought That Was A Good Nickname For A Child. We Named Our Son Beckett So We Could Call Him Beck - We Reverse Engineered. And Then After He Was Born And I Saw The Name On The Birth Certificate I Realized Beckett Was A Really Pretentious Name, Way Too Literary. Luckily He's Grown Into It. We Nearly Named My Second Son Dashiell. Can You Imagine? Beckett And Dashiell. It Would Have Been A Disaster Of Pretentiousness.

I'm A Private Person, A Shy Person. Sometimes, Reading For Eleven Hours Straight Feels To Me Like The Perfect Way To Spend A Day.

In The End, Fiction Is The Craft Of Telling Truth Through Lies.