I don't paint anymore. I haven't since I abandoned it at 19, in order to begin writing seriously.

I have a horror of silence while I'm writing. It's like the universe is howling at me if I don't have it.

I've discovered that like every writer, I'm helpless MYSELF - and that means I find myself unconsciously or semi-consciously repeating motifs and themes and even using certain words or images recurrently in my work, no matter how much I think I'm starting fresh. But I've always admired artists who made a specific sport of trying to visit different kinds of genres or mediums or modes - not just 'western' or 'detective', but comedy/tragedy, epic and miniature, traditional/experimental.

But the day I can't shrug off a twinge of self-pity, is the day I'm washed up for keeps.

I'm learning to hate the sound of my own voice.

As a child growing up in pre-gentrification Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, I went everywhere by bicycle. My bike was in many ways the key to my neighborhood, which, at the time, was Boerum Hill, Brooklyn. This was in the 60s and 70s, before all the white people and restaurants. I really can't underscore boldly enough the fact that I grew up in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, before it was gentrified. You could get mugged!

I don't write about anything I don't love even if that love sometimes gets all screwed up and tormented.