I'm not even sure if empathy is an act, it could be a disposition.

We're getting used to reality and fantasy passing into each other. Much of the border between them has been erased.

Absurdity isn't quite so absurd as it once was.

I just write what I want to read, and sometimes keeping it interesting means adding one more element that ends up adding another year to the work.

It's fiction's job to express how it feels to be living now, and it's a complex feeling, full of contradiction. To me it often feels like a brutal trivialization of reality.

Toronto is hard to capture in a few strokes.

Trauma, and certain important experiences, can imprint on us at a genetic level.