I Promote My Own Self-hatred.

From Age 23 To 44 - I'm 45 Now - I Was Always In Need Of Money, And I Was Especially In Need Of It From 23 To About 34, And My Great Aunt Would Always Give Me Money, A Hundred Bucks, Every Two Months Or So, And A Lot Of Times That Hundred Bucks Made A Huge Difference - I Could Eat Or Pay A Small Bill. It Kept Me Going. She Gave Me Money. It Was Very Loving.

Even When I Was Living Below The Poverty Line As A Novelist, I Was Still Living Better Than 99.5% Of The Human Population Of The World. But In My Little, Soft Realm Of Trying To Amuse A Few Dozen Middle-class People With My Books And Articles, I Did Struggle To Survive In My Own Way.

After My First Novel, My Mother Said To Me, 'why Don't You Make Your Writing More Funny? You're So Funny In Person.' Because My First Novel Was Rather Dark. And I Don't Know, But Something About What She Said Was True. 'yes, Why Don't I?' Maybe I Was Afraid To Be Funny In The Writing. But Since Then, Seven Books Later, Almost Everything I've Done Has A Comedic Edge To It.

Having A Show Get Canceled Is Like, 'oh, You Have Caviar Between Your Teeth,' You Know What I Mean? Because You Had A Show In The First Place.

I Promote My Own Self-hatred.