I: What do you think of your writing?
M: I think it’s good… (pauses) But there’s this crippling inner critic who always tells me it’s not good enough. (pauses) I’m both arrogant and insecure at once.
I: Why do you write?
M: Why does anyone create anything? I love playing God, I guess. Is that arrogance or insecurity? Being able to create something is… (pauses) I want to say ‘liberating’ but that’s not only wrong but it’s also a cliché. Being able to create something is liberated – it’s free – and it’s my own. I read somewhere that craft is a political act because you are taking the means of production away from the elite few and reclaiming that power for yourself. Writing is the same but you’re not making something, you’re making a whole universe. Full of somethings. I was never good at craft, or drawing or painting, never particularly good at songwriting. I was good at imagining.
I: Where do you write?
M: On the page. No, that wasn’t very funny. (pauses) I think I write in my head and then I transcribe it onto the page – well, I input it into my computer.
I: Do you write a lot?
M: Not as much as I should. Not as much as I want to. But I’m lazy and I’m boring and it’s much easier to come home and do fuck all. (pauses) When I do write, I write. Today, for instance, I’ve written.
I: What have you written today?
M: I killed two people and met my girlfriend of fifteen months for the first time. I read and wrote a presentation about writing and reading. I assumed my guise of Sir Galalad and sparred wielding syntactical swords with the worthy knight Sir Bantsalot. I wrote an abstract. Notes, notes, notes. Posted on my blog (twice?). Private and intimate texts with my lover – which, No, you can’t read. And I interviewed myself.
I: You interviewed yourself?
M: You interviewed yourself.