Watching writers read and watching writer’s stories explored by talking heads around them is interesting. Does it give you more than the writing you read from them? I’m not sure.
When I would write about reading Bukowski I was doing so with little biographical knowledge of him. Did it make a difference to the accuracy of any picture I had painted in my mind of him? In some ways it doesn’t matter because my only real concern was with the writer and not the man.
Men are flesh and blood things and authors are the ghosts haunting their art. I always found ghost stories fascinating.
This is, of course, a strange thing for a writer write, given that being well known for the works which you have written is one of the perks. It strikes me thought that truths about who I am would be intrinsically unable to surmount the truths of a piece of real literature.
The flesh and blood part of me is for my friends and family.
And all of this is written sort of tongue in cheek because when fame has eluded for so long, the notion of posterity is somewhat ridiculous and overinflated at this point in time. But despite the viewpoint of my detractors I have never been a hobbyist. This is a calling.