I live for coincidences. They briefly give to me the illusion or the hope that there’s a pattern to my life, and if there’s a pattern, then maybe I’m moving toward some kind of destiny where it’s all explained.
People don’t expect too much from literature. They just want to know they’re not alone with being confused.
I drink coffee. Without coffee, I probably couldnt write.
I am part of a vast generation of people who perpetually live as if they just graduated from college.
I need to stay in the present and use that new-age mantra: ‘I’m okay right now.’ But I worry about all the things I’m failing at every moment.
No one I interact with – except maybe for family and strangers at the Russian baths and other weird places I may go to – is just friends or lovers with me: they also know something of my writing and this distorts their take on me.
I’ve really never written about my relationships, or things like that. I wouldn’t want to divulge things that were too private.
I’ve always been inspired by Don Quixote as a role model of sorts, of the power of books to sort of make you insane in maybe a beautiful way.
I’m actually much more shy and self-conscious than people’s perception of me.
Then again, the name, the associations with a writer’s name, can add to the reader’s entertainment and pleasure.
I have very few hobbies. In fact, I have no hobbies.