I never think about the actual process of writing. I suppose I have a superstition about examining it too closely.

I'm too shy for personal appearances, and I've found out that anytime I talk about my writing, I can't do any writing for many weeks afterward.

The writing process, it's too mysterious to try and describe.

Not until the final draft do I force myself to remember that I'm going to have to think about how it will affect other people.

I can never tell ahead of time which book will give me trouble - some balk every step of the way, others seem to write themselves - but certainly the mechanics of writing, finding the time and the psychic space, are easier now that my children are grown.

I was standing in the schoolyard waiting for a child when another mother came up to me. Have you found work yet? she asked. Or are you still just writing?