I'm a novelist. I'm not a crusader, and I'm not an editorial writer. And I'm not writing fiction to convince anybody of anything.

Alice McDermott

Alice McDermott

Profession: Author
Nationality: American

Some suggestions for you :

It was not about the sea or the sand, but burying her feet there had seemed to cure what had worried her...

He was pale as salt. Although.

I don't want to write about violence, and I don't want to hang a plot on a murder. I think it's cheap.

I'm not usually drawn to memoir - many run the risk of self-aggrandizement or score-settling.

My love for the child asleep in the crib, the child's need for me, for my vigilance, had made my life valuable in a way that even the most abundantly offered love, my parents', my brother's, even Tom's, had failed to do. Love was required of me now--to be given, not merely to be sought and returned.

Why not? but without conviction, confirming for them both that this was a sudden impulse that most likely would not last out the afternoon. What if I come by at seven? he said.

I learned really early on that I had to treat it as if it were a real job. This might be my middle class background - the Irish work ethic, which isn't quite the same as the Protestant work ethic - but still, it's, 'Get a job and show up every day. Be there. And don't complain. Who do you think you are: you're nobody special; go to work.'

The banging at the door was his excuse to turn away—some people had their coats in there—and while he stood with his back to her she dressed again and unlocked the door and walked out. She smiled at the taunts and jeers of her friends and when someone asked, Where's Mike? she said, I think I killed him, which got a great laugh.

IN THE LOBBY of her building, people fresh out of the wind were huffing and puffing like swimmers just crawled up on shore.

But love's a tonic, Michael, not a cure. He was a bastard still.

The devil loves these short, dark days.

Not a soul, Mary Keane said to her husband, the wind lifting her words, tossing them gently back over her shoulder, the way it moved the colorful tails of the scarf she had tied under her chin. In her arms she had bundled a wool blanket and a.

What interests me is whatever it is that allows the heart to continue to yearn for something the intelligence knows is impossible to have: a lost love, a shelter from life's blows, the return of a time past, even a connection to the dead.

The thing that fiction can do is look from the inside out rather than from the outside in. Even memoir leaves me somewhat frustrated. I think now we need a poet to uncover what isn't on the surface.