I Hate That Word Dysfunction.

[t]o Love A Specific Person, And To Identify With His Or Her Struggles And Joys As If They Were Your Own, You Have To Surrender Some Of Your Self.

The World Was Ending Then, It's Ending Still, And I'm Happy To Belong To It Again.

When I Was Younger, The Main Struggle Was To Be A 'good Writer.' Now I More Or Less Take My Writing Abilities For Granted, Although This Doesn't Mean I Always Write Well.

The Problem Was Money And The Indignities Of Life Without It. Every Stroller, Cell Phone, Yankees Cap, And Suv He Saw Was A Torment. He Wasn't Covetous, He Wasn't Envious. But Without Money He Was Hardly A Man.

I Feel As If I'm Clearly Part Of A Trend Among Writers Who Take Themselves Seriously - And I Confess To Taking Myself As Seriously As The Next Writer.