I've always wanted to be a guy with a rec room.

How do you write when you're not miserable? The solution, of course, is to make yourself miserable about not writing.

This is what I think: If you had the nerve to live what you lived, you should have the nerve to write it.

You may think you don't want to throw your life away for mere fleeting euphoria. But, once you get a taste, it doesn't feel so mere. From then on the planet becomes a waiting room. The rest of your life devolves to no more than the time between highs.

In my family, misery didn't just love company, it wanted hostages.

You can't really compare hells. But I suppose the hell of being strung out on another person's addictive behavior is its own special thing.

I need - and occasionally love - to write for the same reasons I always did: hard as writing is, it's generally easier than life.