A writer writing about writers who only write about writers. He is disappearing into an irony cul-de-sac, and that is why he wrote it — to write himself out of a cul-de-sac. In the same way he wrote about writer’s with block until he handled his block through the machinery of another’s block, that of his characters.
To see his work though, as limited to the purely biographical, and not as an instrument through which he might further his other less self-involved works was a mistake. Of course there is something inescapably universal in the biographical, because we are, after all, made of the same stuff and have similar beginning points and ending points, but you might miss the point if you view it through those filters.
When interviewers ask him why he wrote what he wrote he feels that he has failed, until he realises that they have not read his work and are operating off of fixed questions that seek to turn the work into hamburgers for the general populace, who the avatars of taste view as dumb cattle. He filibusters sometimes until the timeslot for the interview is dead. Or he will drop undiluted truth bombs into the space until the interviewer is blown up and they cut to adverts. Sometimes he will stonewall them.
He will write about all of this. Is his life the creation he is throwing his effort into, or is it into the work? Are the work and the life something different? Sometimes. Sometimes not.
Writing rights. And righting writes helps those who read.