But the grind has begun. The windows don’t open, and even the availability of near-constant jokes about Jews and Mormons fails to stem the tide of frustration, decay. We’ve reached the end of pure inspiration, and are now somewhere else, something implying routine, or doing something because people expect us to do it, going somewhere each day because we went there the day before, saying things because we have said them before, and this seems like the work of a different sort of animal, contrary to our plan, and this is very very bad.

If your hand doesn't work for it, your heart doesn't feel sorry for it.

But I'm thinking about 12 things at once, a hundred thousand times a day. Most people do, I would imagine.

I've always been interested in the form itself, so I always feel like I've never been good at going ahead with the artifice and not acknowledging the self in the artistic process, and not acknowledging the absurdity of pretending that's required in fiction.

I publish my own books, so there isn't a certain editor I owe the book to at a publishing house.

I have no idea how people function without near-constant internal chaos. I'd lose my mind.

Here I am Rock You Like a Hurricane.