A year earlier, I’d celebrated my birthday with an all-night bash. The writing was going well, I went out dancing every night. Now I stared into snowy gloom and wondered what I’d been thinking.
Though I have doubted my talent, I’ve never doubted my conviction that this was the path I had to be on. Writing is like my Siamese twin: freakish, alive, weighty, uncanny. Were we to be separated, I doubt that I could survive it.