I've got at least one tiny corner of the universe I can make just the way I want it.

My soul seemed as foul as smoke from burning cat fur.

Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.

And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.

Literature should not disappear up its own asshole, so to speak.

I am the victim of a fortunate series of accidents.

Swoopers write a story quickly, higgledy-piggledy, crinkum-crankum, any which way. Then they go over it again painstakingly, fixing everything that is just plain awful or doesn’t work. Bashers go one sentence at a time, getting it exactly right before they go on to the next one. When they’re done they’re done.