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

Heroin spread that soft blanket over everything. But once the blanket was ripped off, it took a layer of skin with it, leaving nothing but nerve ends screaming in the breeze.

The second time I took acid, I watched myself in the mirror for nine hours. What I realized, when I stared, was that my face looked exactly the same when I cried as when I laughed. After awhile I couldn't tell which I was doing. Relief was just pain inside out.

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

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

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

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