I found myself jealous of the people who wrote the books. They were dead and they were still taking up my time. Who did they think they were?

A working brain is probably a lot like a map, where anybody can get from one place to another on the freeways. It's the nonworking brains that get blocked, that have dead ends, that are under construction like mine.

I should be a success and I'm not and other people- younger people- are. Younger people than me are on TV and getting their lives in order. I'm still a nobody. When am I going to not be a nobody?

I've had good moments scattered since then, times when I thought I was better, but that was the last day I felt triumphant.

That made me happy. That was my Anchor.

A lot of the books that I grew up reading were pretty brutal, like the Redwall books.

Nobody had told me I was common.