Fiction is in danger of becoming a kind of poetry. Only other poets read it. Only other fiction writers care about it.
All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children. . . . I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.