In ways I don't entirely have the words for, an experience, thought or a lesson isn't real for me until I've written down.

There's a point at which writing a book, or a long article, begins to feel like mental labor, and it's too painful to connect in the world in any real way mid-process. The only way to survive is to write until it is all said and done.

It's probably cliche to say this, but in my experience, people are far more alike than they are dissimilar.

Until I read Anne Frank's diary, I had found books a literal escape from what could be the harsh reality around me. After I read the diary, I had a fresh way of viewing the both literature and the world. From then on, I found I was impatient with books that were not honest or that were trivial and frivolous.

I am becoming increasingly difficult to please as a reader, but I adore being surprised by a really wonderful book, written by someone I've never heard of before.

I always knew mum loved me - tough, look-after-yourself love, as if she knew she wouldn't always be there.