Freedom Is Anathema To Dreams Nurtured In

The Radio Station Was Playing Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, A Sure Sign That Things Were Much Worse Than They Appeared.

Before My First Novel, I Was Dating A Woman Who Later Went To Prison For Bashing A Guy With A Hammer.

I Reveled In The Smallness, The Coziness Of An Upstairs Bedroom In A Traditional American Cape Cod House The Half-floor That Forces You To Duck, To Feel Small And Naive Again, Ready For Anything, Dying For Love, Your Body A Chimney Filled With Odd, Black Smoke. These Square, Squat, Awkward Rooms Are Like A Fifty-square-foot Paean To Teenage-hood, To Ripeness, To The First And Last Taste Of Youth.

The Only Way To Write About Right Now Is To Write About The Future.

Also, I've Spent An Entire Week Without Reading Any Books Or Talking About Them Too Loudly. I'm Learning To Work My Apparat's Screen, The Colourful Pulsating Mosaic Of It, The Fact That It Knows Every Last Stinking Detail About The World, Whereas My Books Only Know The Minds Of Their Authors.