from a column on salon.com:
Of course, like many other writers, I hate myself. I just fucking hate myself. I hate my writing. I hate my writing. I hate my writing. I hate my fucking voice in my head. I hate all the voices in my head. I wish for nothing so much as silence and contentment, but I have to keep talking because I believe if I keep talking I stay alive. If I stop talking, I die. That's how it is. So I hate my fucking self, but I can't stop talking and I can't stop writing and I can't stop these fucking voices from rehashing funerals from my childhood and visions of Christmas dinners, because I think if it stops I'm a dead man. It's all in there all the time hashing itself out. It's a life form. Language is a life form. Language, speech, imagination, it's a parasitic life form that burrows in and takes over.
And of course when I look at what I've written, I hate it. It's a bunch of fucking garbage! So what's new? Am I the only fucking writer who hates himself and hates his writing? Hell no. It's a sport. It's a national anthem. It's a way of life.
It's our way of life.