Something Chabon wrote.

The problem, if anything, was precisely the opposite. I had too much to write: too many fine and miserable buildings to construct and streets to name and clock towers to set chiming, too many characters to raise up from the dirt like flowers whose petals I peeled down to the intricate frail organs within, too many terrible genetic and fiduciary secrets to dig up and bury and dig up again, too many divorces to grant, heirs to disinherit, trysts to arrange, letters to misdirect into evil hands, innocent children to slay with rheumatic fever, women to leave unfulfilled and hopeless, men to drive to adultery and theft, fires to ignite at the hearts of ancient houses. Chabon. Wonder Boys.

I can only write about boys thinking they are men and finding they are not and about boys thinking they are in love and finding they are not. I had a happy childhood and so have a good heart, meaning there is little else I know. Any anger or angst in me will not erupt from me in a moldable useable burst of ink and consequences. My skin is too finely stitched together for that kind of opportunity. Instead, just a steady leak that leaves me with a little less than the morning before, and still, nothing about which to write. I've seen nothing.

J.