Maybe everyone stays the same inside, even when their life looks nothing like what they once had, or even imagined. - Anna Quindlen

. . . and when nanas die they leave grandchildren and perhaps a trace memory of being coddled, kissed, attended to, and loved, of being chased across the lawn or rocked in the middle of the night or taken seriously. In Nanaville there is always in the back of my mind the understanding that I am building a memory out of spare parts and that, someday, that memory will be all that's left of me.

People have writer's block not because they can't write, but because they despair of writing eloquently.

My friendships have a certain symmetry at the moment: Alice is always asking me what she should do, and Nancy is always telling me what I should do.