I Will Live To Piss

Writing Is A Holy Chore.

I Cannot Pay Attention To What People Say About My Work. For Me, Personally, I Am Just This Shards-and-ashes Human Being, Who Really Gets Upset When Someone Says Something Bad About Me. If It's True, I Cop To It. If I Have Any Good Qualities, It's That.

I Was The Green Monkey, The Pariah. And I Had No Friends. Not Just A Few Friends, Or One Good Friend, Or Grudging Acceptance By Other Misfits And Outcasts. I Was Alone. All Stinking Alone, Without Even An Imaginary Playmate.

What I Try To Write About Are The Darkest Things In The Soul, The Mortal Dreads... The Closer I Get To The Burning Core Of My Being, The Things Which Are Most Painful To Me, The Better Is My Work.

There Is Harlan Ellison The Human Being, Who Takes A Crap A Couple Of Times A Day, And Who Farts, And Who Eats Chicken Croquettes, If I Can Find Them. And Then There Is The Writer, This Writer-person, Who Is A Much Finer Person Than I. Much More Orderly, Much More Meaningful. Worthier, Than I [am].