Writing is a sweet and marvelous reward, but a reward for what? In the course of the night it became clear to me, as plain as a children’s show-and-tell lesson, that it is a reward for serving the devil. This descent down to the dark powers, this unleashing of ghosts by nature bound, these questionable embraces and whatever else may be going on down there, none of it remembered as one writes stories in the sunlight up above. Perhaps there are also different ways of writing, but I only know this one; at night, when fear keeps me from sleeping, I only know this one.
