Fiction suddenly became this place where I could write about all my desires, but nobody would have to pay a price for it. Nobody would be unhappy if I would eat five desserts or punch the people who deserved punching or kiss the people who deserved to be kissed, you know? So there was something very liberating about it. Fiction became this kind of padded cell where I could run and hit my head against the wall without kind of causing any harm—not to the wall and neither to my head.