I write out of revenge.

Yes, I am a failed playwright. I had three shows on Broadway by the time I was 30. They all flopped, and I fled.

I write out of revenge.

I've been in the revenge buisness for so long, now that it's over I don't know what to do with the rest of my life.

Writing is finally about one thing: going into a room alone and doing it. Putting words on paper that have never been there in quite that way before. And although you are physically by yourself, the haunting Demon never leaves you, that Demon being the knowledge of your own terrible limitations, your hopeless inadequacy, the impossibility of ever getting it right. No matter how diamond-bright your ideas are dancing in your brain, on paper they are earthbound.

Fezzik's in trouble, bubble bubble, His brain is just not in the pink, His mind is rubble, rub-a-dub double, Because everyone needs him to think.

Who says life is fair, where is that written?