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

I had an all-Fear of Music iPod, just versions of the 11 songs from the record. No other songs allowed.

I've never related to the work geek at all-it sounds much more horrible than nerd. Like a freak biting a chicken's head off in a sideshow.

I’ve always been uninterested in boundaries or quarantines between tastes and types, between mediums and genres.

I don't know why the world has changed so much that writers are now expected to appear in public and talk about their work. It's something I find very difficult. And yet, one does have some sense of responsibility towards one's publishers, to the people trying to sell the book.