I don't know why I write what I write.

Open the hood of a car and it will tell you something about the people who designed it, is just one of many phrases I’m tortured by.

I've never written an autobiographical novel in my life. I've never touched upon my life. I've never written a single scene that I can say took place.

I have no problems or issues with screenwriting in general.

No one is drawn to writing about being happy or feelings of joy.

I have all the characteristics of a human being: blood, flesh, skin, hair; but not a single, clear, identifiable emotion, except for greed and disgust. Something horrible is happening inside of me and I don't know why. My nightly bloodlust has overflown into my days. I feel lethal, on the verge of frenzy. I think my mask of sanity is about to slip.

When the going gets tough, the tough go drinking.