Im a child of the Civil Rights Movement.
I'm gregarious with writers and never with manuscripts. . . I [like to] create the illusion of seamless perfection, so I alone know the flawed homely process along the way.
I’ve always been uninterested in boundaries or quarantines between tastes and types, between mediums and genres.
As a child growing up in pre-gentrification Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, I went everywhere by bicycle. My bike was in many ways the key to my neighborhood, which, at the time, was Boerum Hill, Brooklyn. This was in the 60s and 70s, before all the white people and restaurants. I really can't underscore boldly enough the fact that I grew up in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, before it was gentrified. You could get mugged!
Context is everything. Dress me up and see. I'm a carnival barker, an auctioneer, a downtown performance artist, a speaker in tongues, a senator drunk on filibuster. I've got Tourette's. My mouth won't quit, though mostly I whisper or subvocalize like I'm reading aloud, my Adam's apple bobbing, jaw muscle beating like a miniature heart under my cheek, the noise suppressed, the words escaping silently, mere ghosts of themselves, husks of empty breath and tone.
Yes! I'm the slowest comic-book writer on Earth.
I never take any notes or draw charts or make elaborate diagrams, but I hold an image of the shape of a book in my head and work from that mental hologram.
Love is a little haven of refuge from the world.
In your hands you hold the seeds of failure - or the potential for greatness.
I've killed lots of Arabs in my life - and there's no problem with that.
If it's not bourbon or sweatpants, it's going in the garbage. . . . No, don't get creative. Now is not a creative time. Now is a bourbon and sweatpants time.