Very early in life I became fascinated with the wonders language can achieve. And I began playing with words.

When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am, who we are, what we're capable of, how we feel, how we lose and stand up, and go on from darkness into darkness. I'm trying for that. But I'm also trying for the language. I'm trying to see how it can really sound. I really love language. I love it for wate it does for us, how it allows us to explain the pain and the glory, the nuances and delicacies of our existence. And then it allows us to laugh, allows us to show wit. Real wit is shown in language. We need language.

Words. Words. I play with words, hoping that some combination, even a chance combination, will say what I want.

I write because I cannot NOT write.

Being a writer requires an intoxication with language.

I write what I like

I am interested in language because it wounds or seduces me.

I write because I've always written, can't stop. I am a writing animal. The way a silk worm is a silk-producing animal.

To me, Writing is Fun. It doesn’t matter what you’re writing, as long as you can tell a story.

To do it artificially, to try to hype myself into being a better writer by doggedly reading better literature, is also a mistake. I learn to use the language by the pleasures it gives me when I am able to swim in it or maneuver in it or interchange in it with the people around me.

For me, the pleasure of writing comes with inventing stories.

I think like a genius, I write like a distinguished author, and I speak like a child.

Write like you talk. Often.

So I write mainly for the fun of it, the hell of it, the duty of it. I enjoy writing and will probly be a scribbler on my dying day, sprawled on some stony trail halfway between two dry waterholes.