William: Hello Damon. Please just call me William. There’s no need for such formality here.
Damon: As you wish, William. I’ll cut to the chase: you don’t like me, do you.
William: Since this is an interview, I’ll assume that was a question, though it certainly didn’t sound like one.
Damon: With due respect, sir, that didn’t sound like an answer.
William: At ease…Lieutenant is it? Have you graduated West Point yet?
Damon: Yes. But again you’ve evaded my question.
William: You’ve got it all wrong. It’s not at all the way you think.
Damon: Okay, then set me straight.
William: It doesn’t work that way, Damon. You ask a question for which you already believe you know the answer—your mind is closed to the truth—so my reply will not help you.
Damon: Nice. Not only do you dislike me, you think I’m beyond hope.
William: Christ, Damon, you want a piece of me? Is that what this is all about?
Damon: If I wanted a piece of you, you’d be in pieces now, and I’d be making my selection out of your remains. Don’t flatter yourself just because you write books.
William: I’ll try not to.
Damon: Another wise guy, just like my kid brother. Like the world doesn’t have enough of them.
William: [Laughs] I wasn’t trying to imply that I could kick your ass, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just telling you that you can’t kick mine.
My God, Damon, if you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to get a sunburn.
Damon: I’m six-one and you’re five-eight, five-nine?
William: Five-nine, but what’s an inch between a character and an author? You could be King Kong and it wouldn’t make a difference. I’m your creator, you can’t touch me. Not in this world, at least.
Damon: How convenient for you.
William: I don’t have a death wish, Damon. Go on, speak your mind.
Damon: What do you have against me?
William: Nothing. And that’s the honest truth. You can believe me or not, but I swear on my children it’s true.
Damon: Am I one of your children?
William: No, Damon. You are me.
Damon: So you hate yourself?
William: At times, but I don’t hate you. You I see clearly. You are a free entity, somehow. When I write about you, I can’t always control the outcome.
Damon: If you can’t, who the hell can?
William: Nobody. You are who you are. I am who I am. You need to accept that and move on. The more you resist, the more you suffer.
Damon: So you don’t believe in change?
William: I’d be a fool not to believe in change. A fool and an awful writer. Everything changes, Damon. Everything. That’s the only thing that doesn’t change.
Damon: Answer me this: Does she love me?
William: Have you ever considered what would happen if you knew things about the future? If you had access to information no mortal should ever know? Like what happens or doesn’t happen when you die?
Damon: I asked a simple question.
William: The hell you did. You’re trying to cheat, my friend. You’re looking for a shortcut—a detour from pain. It doesn’t work that way. I can just tell you that everything, and I mean everything, happens for a reason.
Damon: Otherwise, you’d be just another lousy writer.
William: That too, but I was going someplace deeper with this.
Damon: Yes, I’m sure you were. But I don’t have time to beat around the bush. If you’re not going to answer my questions, then this interview is over.
William: Okay, okay. Just one bit of advice, if I may—and being that it’s coming from your creator, you might just want to listen up—end the war, Damon. End it, or it will end you.