It Was The Hat. He Looked Sweet

I Felt No Shame In These Activities, Because I Understood What Almost No One Else Seemed To Grasp: That There Was Only An Infinitesimal Difference, A Difference So Small That It Barely Existed Except As A Figment Of The Human Imagination, Between Working In A Tall Green Glass Building On Park Avenue And Collecting Litter In A Park. In Fact, There May Have Been No Difference At All.

Kissing Mother Superior, Incompetent, Hairball, Poppy Seeds, On The Can.

But I Always Need To Identify With A Character To Write About Him Or Her - And By "identify," I Mean See The World Through That Person's Eyes And Have A Strong Sense Of The Inner Logic Of Their Acts And Decisions, Wacky Or Wrongheaded Though They Might Be. In That Sense, I Think There's Some Of Me In All Of Them.

When Does A Fake Mohawk Become A Real Mohawk? Who Decides? How Do You Know If It's Happened?

I Hope To Keep Writing Journalism As Long As I Write Fiction; It's Afforded Me Such Amazing Adventures And Opportunities. It Does Take A Lot Of Time, So It's Hard To Do Both At Once, But I Try To Do A Big Journalism Piece Every Couple Of Years, And I'll Hopefully Continue With That.