They’d blame a castoff just for breathing. You could be good as gold and they’d still blame you.

The surfeit of bad trends pushes me to set my stories in worlds which are often diminished versions of our own present.

The future looks a bit bleak to me.

If I cared for human approval, I would have been dead long ago.

Take three different Thai writers and ask them to extrapolate their county's future, and one hopes that you'll get three very different - but all deeply honest - versions.

But then, that was the problem with pretty toy stitches. When real life got hold of them, they always tore out.

Of course, the more you read, the more you learn, and ultimately there is more information than you can ever use. The difficulty is that as an outsider, you know you're too ignorant for your own good, and so the urge to keep researching and *never* start writing is pretty strong.