The Problems You Have As A Novelist

Every Messiah Fails, The Moment He Tries To Redeem Himself.

When I First Decided I Wanted To Be A Writer, When I Was 10, 11 Years Old, The Books That I Loved Obviously And Openly Fit That Description: They Came With Maps And Glossaries And Timelines - Books Like Lord Of The Rings, Dune, The Chronicles Of Narnia. I Imagined That's What Being A Writer Was: You Invented A World, And You Did It In A Very Detailed Way, And You Told Stories That Were Set In That World.

I’m A Man Who Falls In Love So Easily, And With Such Reckless Lack Of Consideration For The Consequences Of My Actions, That From The Very First Instant Of Entering Into A Marriage I Become, Almost By Definition, An Adulterer.

When I Remember That Dizzy Summer, That Dull, Stupid, Lovely, Dire Summer, It Seems That In Those Days I Ate My Lunches, Smelled Another's Skin, Noticed A Shade Of Yellow, Even Simply Sat, With Greater Lust And Hopefulness - And That I Lusted With Greater Faith, Hoped With Greater Abandon. The People I Loved Were Celebrities, Surrounded By Rumor And Fanfare; The Places I Sat With Them, Movie Lots And Monuments. No Doubt All Of This Is Not True Remembrance But The Ruinous Work Of Nostalgia, Which Obliterates The Past, And No Doubt, As Usual, I Have Exaggerated Everything.

I Found One Remaining Box Of Comics Which I Had Saved. When I Opened It Up And That Smell Came Pouring Out, That Old Paper Smell, I Was Struck By A Rush Of Memories, A Sense Of My Childhood Self That Seemed To Be Contained In There.