My Grandfather And I Were Very Close.

A Lot Of Writers That I Know Have Told Me That The First Book You Write, You Write About Your Childhood, Whether You Want To Or Not. It Calls You Back.

When I Was Eight Years Old, I Wrote A Paragraph-long Short Story About A Goat On My Mother's Hundred-pound, Black-and-white-screen Laptop. The Story Came About Largely Because I Liked The Way The Word 'goat' Looked On The Page, But I Decided Then And There That I Wanted To Be A Writer. That Desire Never Changed.

My Mother Always Says That Fear And Pain Are Immediate, And That, When They're Gone We're Left With The Concept, But Not The True Memory.

When Your Fight Has Purpose - To Free You From Something, To Interfere On The Behalf Of An Innocent - It Has A Hope Of Finality. When The Fight Is About Unraveling - When It Is About Your Name, The Places To Which Your Blood Is Anchored, The Attachment Of Your Name To Some Landmark Or Event - There Is Nothing But Hate, And The Long, Slow Progression Of People Who Feed On It And Are Fed It, Meticulously, By The Ones Who Come Before Them. Then The Fight Is Endless, And Comes In Waves And Waves, But Always Retains Its Capacity To Surprise Those Who Hope Against It.

I Think The Mythology Of Death Really Ran Away With Me When I Was Very Young.