I've been writing for a long time. I sat down to write my first novel in the middle of March of 1982.
When I'm really stressed out, I go to church. I light candles and sit and pray. And I'll ask myself, What's the lesson? Why am I going through this? There's got to be a reason I'm here. What am I supposed to learn?
Facetiousness is allowable when it is the most proper instrument of exposing things apparently base and vile to due contempt.

