Writers are whores, if we can help it; I’m no exception. There is nowhere I wouldn’t go and nothing I wouldn’t do to sate my narrative carnality, and no part of me so sacred it couldn’t be comodified and traded off for the sake of a Good Story. It is my lot to always look for things that no one else is seeing, to believe in daydreams and perceptions as concretely as an alchemist believes in magic. I believe you can make something out of nothing, and that shiny, overlooked things are secretly alive. Usually they turn out to be faeries or dragons or glowing aliens, but sometimes they turn into things that are worth being caught, and those times are what I live for.
I strip at a club to pay my bills. It keeps me from getting caught up in the career-and-kids-and-house model that works well for so many people who aren’t writers, and some who are. It keeps me from getting too serious, and it gives me the time to spend writing. Eventually (when I’m 30 or so), I’ll get to that age where people aren’t thrilled to see my tits; on that day I’ll stop stripping and tell you who I really am, and what I’ve written and accomplished under my real name with all that nice stripper money.