Sometimes I'm filled with so much anger toward my family in Russia, my parents, for not being proud of me, of how far I've come, for not caring, for not really giving a fuck for me or my writing or my books. But then I remember that they've rarely given a fuck, as they still have so much of their own shit to deal with, and I remember that this family I always dreamed of I simply never had. And then I breathe easier and get back to writing, and when I write I'm happy. My books are my family. And you, my readers.