As A Memoirist, I Strive For Veracity.

How Much Smaller The Large Places Are Once We're Grown Up, When We Have Car Keys And Credit Cards.

No Road Offers More Mystery Than That First One You Mount From The Town You Were Born To, The First Time You Mount It Of Your Own Volition, On A Trip Funded By Your Own Coffee Tin Of Wrinkled Up Dollars - Bills You've Saved And Scrounged For, Worked The All-night Switchboard For, Missed The Rolling Stones For, Sold Fragrant Pot With Smashed Flowers Going Brown Inside Twist-tie Plastic Baggies For. In Fact, To Disembark From Your Origins, You've Done Everything You Can Think To Scrounge Money Save Selling Your Spanking Young Pussy.

If You Lie To Your Husband - Even About Something So Banal As How Much You Drink - Each Lie Is A Brick In A Wall Going Up Between You, And When He Tells You He Loves You, It's Deflected Away.

I Was 40 Years Old Before I Became An Overnight Success, And I'd Been Publishing For 20 Years.

Age About 30, I Stopped Looking Up My Books In Bookstores. Paying Attention To The Marketplace Isn't A Healthy Thing For Me.