If it weren't for the unconventionality of my desires, my mind might never have been forced to reckon with my body.

My father once nearly came to blows with a female dinner guest about whether a particular patch of embroidery was fuchsia or magenta. But the infinite gradations of color in a fine sunset - from salmon to canary to midnight blue - left him wordless.

It was not a triumphal return. Home, as I had known it, was gone.

Basically, my work is play. It never actually feels that way - I'm always aiming to attain that state. But I get to do for a living what I did as a child for fun, and that's pretty cool.

For some reason writing and drawing are very separate processes for me.

It was a vicious cycle, though. The more gratification we found in our own geniuses, the more isolated we grew.

I get to do for a living what I did as a child for fun, and that's pretty cool.