“I want people to hear my story, they’re gonna feel my pain.”

I feel like a lot of niggas in the rap game ain’t do what I did in these streets and a lot of niggas in the streets ain’t do what I did in the rap game.

My wife is the fact-checker, I’m in the story telling business.

My best stories come out of nowhere, with no concern for form at all.

I’ve been reading ghost stories ever since I could read. I’m immensely curious about ghosts and UFOs and all that stuff, but I’m a very hard-headed person.

When I sit at that typewriter, I have to be frightened of what I’m trying to do. I’m frightened by my own belief that I can actually get a story down on paper.

The best lives and stories are made up of minute particulars that somehow are also universal and of use to others as well as oneself.

The writer works on the inside and the critic works on the outside. I don’t know what it looks like on the outside, sometimes. It’s not that I’m not interested-it’s not where I live. I live inside the story.

In terms of the mechanics of story, myth is an intriguing one because we didn’t make myth up; myth is an imprinture of the human condition.

While husbands and lovers in the stories are of all kinds, ranging from sympathetic to disgusting, women are invariably deceivers: inconstant, unscrupulous, quarrelsome, querulous, lecherous, shameless, although not necessarily all of these at once.