And As Things Fell Apart, Nobody Paid

I Needed Something--the Distraction Of Another Life--to Alleviate Fear.

He Was Simply Someone Who Floated Through Our Lives And Didn't Seem To Care How Flatly He Perceived Everyone Or That He'd Shared Our Secret Failures With The World, Showcasing The Youthful Indifference, The Gleaming Nihilism, Glamorizing The Horror Of It All.

A Curtain Of Stars, Miles Of Them, Are Scattered, Glowing, Across The Sky And Their Multitude Humbles Me, Which I Have A Hard Time Tolerating. She Shrugs And Nods After I Say Something About Forms Of Anxiety. It's As If Her Mind Is Having A Hard Time Communicating With Her Mouth, As If She Is Searching For A Rational Analysis Of Who I Am, Which Is, Of Course, An Impossibility: There... Is... No... Key.

I Really Believe That Readers Are Smart And Sophisticated Enough To Realize That The Author Is Not The Narrator Of His Novels.

You Don't Market-research A Novel; You Really Are Writing It For Yourself. It's A Hobby, In Many Ways. The Problem Becomes What You Do When You're Confronted By Criticism. You Just Don't Listen To It.