Amy Bloom is the author of the highly acclaimed new collection of short stories: "A Blind Man Can See How Much I Love You." Her earlier fiction includes the short story collection "Come to Me," which was nominated for the National Book Award, and the novel "Love Invents Us." Her work has appeared in The New Yorker, Antaeus, Story, Mirabella, Self, and Vogue, among other publications.

Libby Garland, a senior fellow at CLAL--the National Jewish Center for Learning and Leadership, spoke recently with Bloom. What follows is excerpts from that interview. Read the unabridged interview on CLAL's website.

Your fiction is often about unconventional crossings--unlikely connections between people, whether in a cross-generational friendship or a taboo love affair; or unexpected transformations people make. Why are those the subjects that compel you?
Well, I guess because all intimate relationships are crossings. No matter how conventional the frame, I think to know and engage with someone intimately is always a crossing of a border, always fraught, even if you've been married 50 years.

The Jewish world is often quite preoccupied with boundary crossing in the form of intermarriage.
I think any small group struggles with that. If you're attached to your identity, there's no way not to understand that as soon as you leave the shtetl walls, people will begin intermarrying. You know, it's a big, seductive world out there, and if you want to be part of it at all, you run the risk that your children will embrace it. This doesn't concern me personally, but I understand that people feel anxiety about it.

But I always find those experiences of crossing the richest and most interesting.
Sure, crossings always lie somewhere on an engaging spectrum-from the unlikely ones to the almost impossible to the transgressive. And what someone else regards as transgressive I may regard as simply unlikely. Also, different things bother different people. Intermarriage doesn't bother me. Encouraging your 13-year-old daughter to get a nose job bothers me.

How come?
Because the idea that a pretty girl with a large nose who looks Jewish needs to be surgically altered as soon as possible seems to me unfortunate. In general, I think that plastic surgery for adolescents--whether it's breast jobs or nose jobs--is really not such a great idea, unless of course a person is in some way disfigured.

Talking of plastic surgery reminds me "A Blind Man Can See How Much I Love You," your story about a mother who helps her teenage daughter get the sex-change operation. How does that story fit into your ideas about the connections between surgery and identity?
There are different points of view about somebody being transsexual. But if you believe that some people are actually born in the wrong package, and that they will always be not just more like the opposite sex, but in fact the opposite sex inside, I certainly understand wanting to do something about that, because it may never change. And it's not that I think that if you have a big nose you shouldn't fix it under any circumstance-but I do think that if you're thirteen or fourteen the people who are driving that train are your parents.

And that makes me think about your novel, "Love Invents Us." The mother in the novel has this redecorating fetish that's very painful for the daughter.
Yes, it was painful for the daughter to be such a project, but also for the mother to feel that the daughter needed so much fixing.

I understand the novel took place close to your home of origin?
Yes, parts were set in a real or imagined Great Neck [on Long Island, NY], where I grew up.

Were you part of Jewish life in Great Neck?
Not at all--except that it was inevitable that one should be part of Jewish life in Great Neck, given the makeup of the town. No, my parents didn't belong to a synagogue, and I was very rarely in one, except when my grandparents wished to go for the High Holidays, and then I would be sent as a little gift package to go with them.

What was that like?
Boring. I stared out the window of the religious school, surrounded by a bunch of kids I'd never seen and wouldn't see again until the next year. It was largely a non-event for me. Then my grandparents would swing by, pick me up, and we'd go home.

So you didn't go to the services?
I was at the children's services--they had them so the adults wouldn't be disturbed. My memory of this is largely one of indifference. I put on a dress, I brushed my hair, I sat in the back row, nobody talked to me, I didn't talk to them, and then my grandparents picked me up.

Do you think it was important to your grandparents that you went?
Apparently. I think they would have preferred that my parents go with them, but my parents had no intention of going to synagogue.