I wanted to write, I just for some stupid reason didn’t see how it’d help me to get taught, especially since the thing I wanted to do was so far away from journalism, which if you ask me, you probably should study with somebody who knows what they’re talking about. I figured with writing fiction, it didn’t matter, it was this big ball of goo, it was a bunch of tubes of bright paint but if you did it wrong for half your life, no one would even care to tell you to stop. They’ll just let you flail around and occupy yourself. Novels aren’t life and death, they’re a distraction from death and probably life too, but you’re not going to ruin any one’s existence if your books suck or if your books never get published. I put on my boots that’ve shrunk in the rain and I walked through the metal turnstile, where I don’t have a desk or a list of answers about anything. I eat my lunch cold, surrounded by industrial hum, typing a novel slowly on my iPhone with my fat uneducated thumbs.