Discomfort is very much part of my master plan.

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 never have been a musician; I'm not actually capable. Because I can't even pretend to acquire the gift, all of my first feelings about art are still attached to music. I look at it yearningly, I look at it wonderingly. I behold it from afar, as something unattainable, something outside of myself, from which I can take nourishment, but I can't domesticate and master.

I work on a laptop specifically so I can work in cafes and pretend I'm part of the human world.

Nature, or at least birds and women, abhorred the invisible man.

I had always wanted to be a writer who confused genre boundaries and who was read in multiple contexts.

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.