I pretty much admire anybody who has the discipline and the will to make a career out of fighting. It takes buckets of nerve.
'Losing My Edge' was an anthem for the aging music nerd, with lyrics detailing a comically epic list of historical dates, bands and attended gigs: the anti-hipster's defence against 'the art-school Brooklynites in little jackets and borrowed nostalgia for the unremembered Eighties.'
How do we describe the fact of human existence? At a certain point, perhaps, style fails us. Language, even and in particular at its most evocative, becomes less of an aid and more of a difficulty.
As a writer, I think the greatest danger would be self-censorship.
The canon is dominated by books written by men, about men, and for men - the male voice is therefore not a particularly difficult one to impersonate.
People remain unknowable to us, even people that we're very close to. And I think the same goes for our own selves.
