I wanted to be a skinny little ballerina but I was a voluptuous little Italian girl whose dad had meatballs on the table every night.

I have the rare privilege of talking to my dad every night at 10 p.m. and hearing about what he did that day.

To you, W. B. Yeats, good praiser, wholesome dispraiser, heavy-handed judge, open-handed helper of us all, I offer a play of my plays for every night of the week, because you like them, and because you have taught me my trade.

Every little girl wanted to be Natalie Wood, as did I.

I want a baby from an Italian - possibly Sicilian - donor.

I have a fireplace in my kitchen that I light every night, no matter what.