I Want What We All

I Listen To Music All The Time. I Write While Listening To Music. And I Tell Myself That The Music Nourishes The Art Forms That I Do Master And Domesticate, And Have Authority Over.

I've Just Finished Reading Reality Hunger And I'm Lit Up By It-astonished, Intoxicated, Ecstatic, Overwhelmed. . . . It Really Is An Urgent Book: A Piece Of Art-making Itself, A Sublime, Exciting, Outrageous, Visionary Volume.

I Want To Write Books That Can Be Read A Hundred Years From Now, And Readers Wouldn't Be Bogged Down By Irrelevant Details.

I Have A Horror Of Silence While I'm Writing. It's Like The Universe Is Howling At Me If I Don't Have It.

I Try To Write Every Day. I Don't Beat Myself Up About Word Counts, Or How Many Hours Are Ticking By On The Clock Before I'm Allowed To Go And Do Something Else. I Just Try To Keep A Hand In And Work Every Single Day, Even If There Are Other Demands Or I'm On A Book Tour Or Have The Flu Or Something, Because Then I Keep My Unconscious Engaged With The Book. Then I'm Always A Little Bit Writing, No Matter What Else I'm Doing.