I am now staring at her as she drives, using my sophisticated hermeneutic skills to try and work out in which way every single story in the book is really about her. I don’t get it, though. When she chatters merrily about her son, there’s no mention of the baby she accidentally killed in story three; when I ask about her early years, I get nothing about how she was once a minor movie star dating a mechanic like in the first story. And don’t you hate that? When people just lie for a living?

Zadie Smith on Lorrie Moore

Fact and fiction, fiction and fact. Which stops where, and how much to put in of each? At what point does regurgitated autobiography graduate into memory shaped by art? How do you know when to stop telling it as it is, or was, and make it into what it ought to be — or what would make a better story?

A Writing Woman, Gail Godwin