I think it's just too kinda juicy and compelling to imagine people in their private lives, but then half the time people's private lives are just so much more bizarre and Ted Haggard-like than you could ever imagine. It's almost hard to write fiction anymore.

The art and act of writing - speaking just for myself - involves getting your proverbial ass in the proverbial chair.

A waft of sweet hash drifted by, and I wanted to float after it like Wimpy levitating at the scent of a hamburger.

Nothing ever turns me on so much in a woman as unhappiness.

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.

My own theory is that people are just so desperate for somebody they can feel better than, in America. Now that everyone's going broke and working 17 jobs - if they have one at all - at least they can look at these guys behind bars and think, "At least I get to wear my own clothes to work."

I always figured I myself would never be lucky enough to die, I'd just live on and on in this increasingly dreary spiral.