“Through these essays, I could watch myself grappling with the same themes in my writing and in my life: what I needed, whom I loved, what I could let go, and how much energy the letting go would take,” Ann Patchett writes in her new, deeply enthralling collection, These Precious Days. As ever, Patchett—who has written four works of nonfiction and eight novels, the most recent of which was a Pulitzer finalist, in addition to opening the independent hub Parnassus Books in Nashville—is discerning and funny, light and moving, whether she’s writing about warily reckoning with old boxes of memorabilia (“It was Pandora’s lesson: don’t lift the lid”) or struggling early on to convince her father of the seriousness of her career choice (“I published stories, articles, three novels, and still he sent me notices for summer work on cruise ships”) or refusing to contextualize her decision not to have a family (“I am not using the dog or the book or the bookstore or the step-children to fill a hole left by not having children, because there is no hole”).

The topics have great range, but all are underpinned by Patchett’s championing of community, of literary rigor, of questioning—and readily revising—what she thinks she knows. Individually and cumulatively, they convey a resplendent concentration of strength and wisdom. Below, ELLE.com chatted with the author via email about her unshakeable sisterhood of friendships, her staunch material minimalism, and the latest titles that she’s cheerleading for.

As the owner of a bookstore, you once said, “I’ve interviewed more authors than you could even imagine.” What constitutes a good interview question for you, as the interviewee? Moreover, having been on both sides of this seesaw, what are questions to avoid at all costs?

That’s funny. I’ve never thought in terms of questions I should ask or never ask. It’s always specific to the author and the book. My questions are always friendly. It’s not reporting. I never want to make anyone uncomfortable. I just ask about the things I’m interested in. One thing I don’t do is ask about people’s childhoods. I think it’s time to let those questions go.

You’ve also written, “The price of living with a writer was that eventually she would write about you.” Could you talk about the idea of living an experience while observing an experience—how do the two coexist? (In “My Three Fathers,” you illustrate this point perfectly re: Darrell: “I held his skeletal hand and thought about what I would write after he died.”)

The thing to remember is that very few experiences are actually story-worthy. It’s pretty rare that something happens in my life and I think, I’m going to write about this. (I’m 58. I haven’t written that much nonfiction.) Sometimes it can be a comforting place to put in your mind, like holding Darrell’s hand at the end of his life, or being in a bad situation in a small plane.

There are beautiful descriptions of friendship throughout the book. This one about Erica stuck out: “When I was at the bottom of the well, she threw down a length of yarn and told me to knit myself back up. She didn’t care how long it took. She would be waiting at the top, holding onto her end.” And equally endearing is how you describe Tavia: “Tavia and I operate off a common hard drive… For fifty years we’ve adjusted our bond to fit the times.” What are the parameters of chronicling the intimacy of friendship? How do you assess what to share and what not to?

I love my friends, and I write about them from a place of love. I’ve known Tavia and Erica for so many years, and I could tell different stories, boring stories, but I tell the ones that are the most compelling to me, the ones that are the most emblematic of them. I don’t worry about crossing a line because crossing a line just isn’t interesting to me, either personally or professionally.

In “How to Practice,” you discuss divesting yourself of items you own and the strange attachment we have to some things. How did this deep excavation change your relationship to your interior space and to materiality?

My friend Judy is here working as I answer these questions. Judy would say that my house was already so neat that my massive clean-out hardly counted. I don’t think the clean-out changed my relationship to my interior space and materiality the way, say, not shopping did. It just makes me happier to walk into the basement and not see a bank of vases that I’ll never use. I also like knowing where everything is. I’m sure I’ll forget over time, but right now, I find it delightful to know that I own a green pencil and I can find it in a hurry if I need to. It’s a timesaver.

In that same essay, you wrote: “Every table had a drawer and every drawer had a story—none of them interesting.” And yet in “The Nightstand,” it seems like certain heirlooms do have tales attached to them that are symbolic. Can both be true?

Yes, both are true. Remember, the interesting papers were in Damien’s mother’s drawer, not mine. Plus, those papers really weren’t interesting—Damien’s response to them was interesting.

In “Eudora Welty, An Introduction,” you implore the reader to read the stories again if they have read them before. What are some other books that have shifted and deepened for you as a reader over the course of your life?

So many. My favorite example is Anna Karenina. The first time I read it at 21, I only cared for Anna and Vronsky. Kitty and Levin and the peasants bored me to tears. When I read it again at 50, I only cared about Kitty and Levin and the peasants. I couldn’t stand Anna and Vronsky. And I loved Aleksei Karenin! The first time I read the book I thought he was a villain.

“There Are No Children Here” emphasizes the importance of having control over one’s own body and familial choices. How much have you seen the conversation change around this topic recently?

It’s a conversation I have studiously avoided. I don’t see my decision as anyone else’s business, and I don’t see other people’s reproductive decisions as my business.

You’ve written about society’s overall attitude towards women: “They think we don’t know our own mind when we decide to have an abortion, but we also don’t know our own mind when we decide to put ourselves in a position where we’ll never have to have an abortion.” Are you hopeful that there will be more acceptance in the future?

It’s impossible to know about the future. A friend of mine sent this essay to his sister who has six children. She had endured the same kind of judgment I had. She and I really bonded over this: they think you should have some children; they don’t think you should have too many children.

Has your desire to be a writer waned at any point, especially in pandemic circumstances?

I never sell my books in advance of finishing them because I never want to owe my work to anyone. My deadlines are self-imposed and can be abandoned on a dime. That’s never changed, but I did used to write for ELLE, and those were real assignments that were due. I always got my work in early. One of the great joys of my life is that I’m not a procrastinator.

After seeing an ad about an orphan, Stevie, you describe its effect as: “going with me everywhere until finally I wrote a novel… because they had become too much for me to carry. I had to write about them so that I could put them down.” Can you elaborate on this? Is the state of having too much to carry often the impetus for writing novel?

It’s usually the impetus for nonfiction—the desire to put a person or an experience someplace, to make a record. That was very true of my friend Lucy Grealy and Truth & Beauty.

In “A Talk to the Association of Graduate School Deans in the Humanities,” you noted: “In those days, the workshop still fostered the Cult of Insanity which has played such a big part in the mythology of being a writer and artist—that misery, mental illness, drug addiction, and alcoholism were proof of your sensitivity and talent. Or to put it another way, the worse you were, the better you were.” Did that ever hold sway for you?

No. I was constitutionally unfit for classic artist behavior. One drink made me sick, and so I stopped drinking. Obviously, I don’t do well with drugs. I am preternaturally cheerful. I was a perfect fit for Catholic girls school and less of a fit for an MFA program.

You mentioned: “Graduate school… has served me well through eviscerating reviews and all manner of internet weirdness.” Can you talk about some of that internet weirdness? How does it infiltrate your life?

I protect myself from internet weirdness. A friend will say, “Don’t read what’s being said about you.” So I don’t. I think the trick is to not give it any air. I’m not on social media. I don’t look at the reader’s comment section on anything. I never think that my way is the One True Path, but it’s my path. I’m sure I’m hopelessly out of step. It doesn’t bother me at all.