I've Been Criticised For Writing In Too

I Held Out My Book. It Was Precious To Me, As Were All The Things I'd Written; Even Where I Despised Their Inadequacy There Was Not One I Would Disown. Each Tore Its Way From My Entrails. Each Had Shortened My Life, Killed Me With Its Own Special Little Death.

Genre Categories Are Irrelevant. I Dislike Them, But I Do Not Have The Casting Vote.

I Like Films, Or Some Films, And Would Be Intrigued To See My Work On Screen.

What Is Any Of This To Us? Time Is Endless And Ours. Love And Death Are Only The Games We Play In It.

I Never Know Where I Am Going, Though. That Is Part Of What Makes It So Wonderful. And After All, Who Does?