When you work 22 hours a day, or even slightly less, everything hurts after a while (at any age), your back hurts, your neck is killing you, every muscle is shrieking. I write until I damn near drop. And even once I’m exhausted, I keep going, and push myself harder. Sometimes that’s when you do your best work. Sometimes my fingers get swollen form typing (I have ice mittens), and often my nails bleed from so much typing. It’s a crazy way to make a living but I love it.
I don’t know where the ideas come from, they just do. I try to know that I’m unimportant in the process, that I’m just a vehicle for the story, like a pane of glass that light shines through. When I start to feel important, light shines through me like linoleum. I think you need a certain amount of humility to do it. It’s a gift, and I’m very grateful for it.
It’s pretty brutal physically, but somewhere you find the strength to do it.