Sullivan discusses how writing remains a vital, evolving practice for him—not despite its challenges, but because of them. He traces his relationship with deadlines to childhood observations of his father, describing a recurring 'self-protective psychosis' that distorts time yet coexists with deep gratitude for the craft. His use of his full name honors familial roots rather than constructing a persona. Reflecting on two decades of work—from Pulphead to his forthcoming book—he notes growing confidence and a shift from fear-driven submission to more intentional creation. He explores voice as a constructed, hybrid space between fiction and nonfiction, rejecting autobiographical transparency in favor of artful mediation. Audience expectations feel increasingly elusive; while some pieces resonate widely, others don’t—and he questions whether reach is controllable or even meaningful. Ultimately, Sullivan embraces change as inherent to writing: endings and beginnings are part of the same unfolding process, anchored not in nostalgia but in openness to what emerges next.