Throwing Things Horrified Me. I Suffered Extreme,

I Don't Have A Fixed Routine. I Write Every Day But I Don't "write" Every Day, If That Makes Any Sense. In Other Words, I Email With My Friends Constantly And Sometimes I'll Pull Out Something I've Written And Save It.

I Think Writers Tend To Be Experience Junkies, And I Think They Also Tend To Want To Be On The Outside Looking In.

But I Can Also Write In Crappy Motel Rooms, While Standing In Line, Or Sitting In The Dentist's Chair.

I Was Like A Packet Of Powdered Sea Monkeys And They Were Like Water.

For Exactly The Same Reason, It Is Sometimes Satisfying To Cut Yourself And Bleed. On Those Gray [sic] Days Where Eight In The Morning Looks No Different From Noon And Nothing Has Happened And Nothing Is Going To Happen And You Are Washing A Glass In The Sink And It Breaks - Accidentally - And Punctures Your Skin. And Then There Is This Shocking Red, The Brightest Thing In The Day, So Vibrant It Buzzes, This Blood Of Yours. That Is Okay Sometimes Because At Least You Know You're Alive.