I think for a long time, I was paralyzed by some of my hopes and ideals for what my life was going to be like. I had this perfect vision of how my life should go, but it seemed - it was - impossible to realize, so I sat around for a long, long time doing almost nothing at all.

I have spent many, many hours reading J.K. Rowling's work. I am a known 'Harry Potter' fan.

The idea of some kind of objectively constant, universal literary value is seductive. It feels real. It feels like a stone cold fact that In Search of Lost Time, by Marcel Proust, is better than A Shore Thing, by Snooki. And it may be; Snooki definitely has more one-star reviews on Amazon. But if literary value is real, no one seems to be able to locate it or define it very well. We're increasingly adrift in a grey void of aesthetic relativism.

The real problem with being around James was that he was always the hero. And what did that make you? Either the sidekick or the villain.

Though the funny thing about never being asked for anything is that after a while you start to feel like maybe you don’t have anything worth giving.

The line between outside and inside is fuzzier in fantasy. Maybe that's something people are looking for.

We're wired to expect the world to be brighter and more meaningful and more obviously interesting than it actually is. And when we realize that it isn't, we start looking around for the real world.