Writing is always partly artifice, a lie — a selection and arrangement of some things, the omission of others. Truth, in a straightforward sense anyway, can be beside the point.
Good work materializes under all economic conditions, so you might as well be wealthy.
The world owes me nothing. The world is indifferent to me, it feels nothing for me. I am merely attempting to secure some sort of foothold on the sheer cliff face up to its sumptuous plateaus.
Need is essential to be a writer.
Writing has given me my life! No negative effects.
It would be impossible for me to describe how out of the scope of my intelligence this question is. I write stories about herpes scares and getting colonics.
As always, I just kind of slither around, investigating the murk in between.
Being a writer is like being a cockroach — there’s a lot of competition, though one rarely sees a skinny cockroach.
Perhaps it is more correct to say that the truth of one’s self, not one’s condition, is related to the truth of one’s writing.
Literature is the space of contradiction and ambiguity, and that’s what interests me.