When the call came from prison, I was lecturing Faith MacPherson again. Waiters lingered by the salad prep, nibbling on the leftover juicy greens, and the dishwashers paused over sudsy piles of bone china, the steam moistening their hair. The staff believed I enjoyed criticizing Faith. I saw that look in their eyes, as if the show was on again. They thought I was insensitive and demanding, a real terror of a boss, but I loathed having to spell things out for her. I hoped that my example as a professional woman in the kitchen would be enough and that Faith might aspire to greatness on her own.”

(from The Final Ingredient)

    "Are you in love with her, this…?"
    "Jasmine." Hank saw Darcy pause in the doorway. She had stopped crying. A lit cigarette poked from her fist. With her eyes occasionally darting across the hallway, she put the cigarette to her lips.
    "Do you love her?" she asked.
    "Not yet."
    "So what's the attraction?"
    "I don't know." He watched her rotate towards him. Smoke curled about their faces, connecting them by the thinnest of threads. He could yank her back with a single lie, but he refused to play any more games. "She's good for me."
    "That's your excuse?"
    "It's not an excuse."
    "It's the worst I've ever heard. When you'll fall in love, I guess you'll know what to say."
    A year later, Hank wondered if she'd jinxed him. He was in love with Jasmine, and he lied all of the time.

(from Nesting)

On a cold winter night after the decade of war and sex and the following decade of booze and drugs and the next decade of money and power, I came into my own as a writer. I'd grown up on authors like Hemingway and Dickens – travelers, adventurers, first class showmen who knew the value of their deeds, if not the weight of their words.
    I was almost thirty years old, too young for the 60s summer of love, too poor for the 70s summer of drugs, and too unconnected for the 80s summer of greed. It was the 90s, a throwaway decade in American history, years filled with angst, confusion and irrational pursuits of wealth and fame. Just as deluded as the next person, I believed I could make it as a novelist, but I still felt removed from the crowd, as if no one else harbored unfulfilled dreams.

(from Satellites, Cigarettes and Whiskey)