“And for what absurd, deluded reason are you keeping any kind of writing impulses at bay? Write your goddamn “full-on science fiction/fantasy/mythology/twilight zone/10,000 plot points per page nonsense.” If we learnt anything from Babushka-head Wallace, it’s self-indulgence still thrives. Wahoo. When was total, wallowing, belching, guffawing, pompous, perverse, rabid self-indulgence ever a bad idea in the arts? Guernica? Moby Dick? Paradise Lost? The Pyramids? Leaves of Grass? The Sistine Chapel? Pulp Fiction? Citizen Kane? Ulysses? Hamlet (half the cast dead in a heap at the end, yes, Willie was the model of restraint)? If ever there was an heir-apparent to the throne of self-indulgence, ‘tis thou, with your tongue-stabbing, blood writing, breast feeding, salt mountain, post-it quotes shenanigans.”