"I have to leave the discipline to Mom. This one can feel that I’m about to yell at her before I say a word. So she runs up to me, gives me a hug, and starts crying right away. So how can I yell at her? And this one lets me yell at her, but her face turns very dark and resentful, and it’s scary. So what am I supposed to do then? So I let Mom do the yelling. They are very attached to me. Everyone sleeps in the same bed, and they won’t go to sleep unless they are resting their head on my shoulders. Dad’s shoulders only. And it’s hard to sleep. When I’m trying to sleep they, um, sometimes they, um, try to play with my nipples."
"What do you feel most guilty about?"
"Not finishing my novel. I’ve already built the room where I’m going to write it at my house in Sag Harbor. The walls of the room are painted Venetian red. It has shelves filled with every book I’ve ever read. There’s a scallop striped Victorian chair. A little pine desk— two feet by three feet, with all my pens lined up, and an 18th Century sang de bouef vase lamp. And there’s a French door with a step that goes out onto the roof so I can look at the clouds. I have everything I need. Except the time."
“Making jewelry is how I breath, and I just sell what’s left over. I sort of view it as my ministry. If somebody has a birthday coming up, I try to make them a little something. One woman at our church has a birthday today, and she’s a cancer survivor, so I made her a heart-shaped pendant that says ‘LIVE’ on it. All the little kids come to see me after church. They love me. Well, I also give them candy, which may be the reason. But I think they love me too.”