Sue Wiggins

“They drain you sometimes. They really do.

"What's it all about then mate? What's the secret of life? You should know. You're a fucking cab driver."

Yeah, right. (As if I'll learn the secret of life talking to arseholes like you all night).

"Got any saucepan lids, mate? I've got two. I hate them. Bastards, they are. Ruined my life. I hate the bastards."

I keep quiet

"Don't try and rip us off, mate. I've got a key between my knuckles."

(Whatever).

The life of a cab driver. Glimpses into other people's lives.”
― Karl Wiggins, Grit: The Banter and Brutality of the Late-Night Cab

“You see what your mother-in-law hasn’t yet realised is that she’s the one who needs to hold out the olive branch, not you, because she’s the one who’s going to want to come around more and more in the future to see her grand-kids. SHE needs to make friends with YOU, not the other way around.”
― Karl Wiggins, You Really Are Full of Shit, Aren't You?

“It's a difficult path that we tread, us Indie self-publishers, but we're not alone. How many bands practicing in their dad’s garage have heard of a group from the neighbourhood who got signed by a recording company? Or how many artists who love to paint, but are not really getting anywhere with it hear of someone they went to art school with being offered an exhibition in a gallery? How many chefs who love to get creative around food hear of someone else who’s just landed a job with Marco Pierre White?
There’s no difference between us and them. There is, however, a huge difference in how everyone else perceives the writer. And there’s a huge difference between all of us – the writers, the musicians, the composers, the chefs, the dance choreographers and to a certain extent the tradesmen - and the rest of society in that no one understands us. It’s a wretched dream to hope that our creativity gets recognised while our family thinks we’re wasting our time when the lawn needs mowing, the deck needs painting and the bedroom needs decorating.
It’s acceptable to go into the garage to tinker about with a motorbike, but it’s a waste of a good Sunday afternoon if you go into the garage and practice your guitar, or sit in your study attempting to capture words that have been floating around your brain forever.”
― Karl Wiggins, Self-Publishing In the Eye of the Storm

“Joe Lon and Willard slipped out of their shirts. Willard flipped over and walked around in the dirt on his hands. Joe Lon took the bottle of whiskey out of his back pocket, set it carefully on the step of the Winnebago, checking out Susan Gender's red pants again as he did. Then he went into a steady handstand and did six dips, his nose just short of the dirt each time he went down. They both came off their hands and looked at Duffy.

"I'm impressed," said Duffy, shortly. "What the hell are you, gymnasts?"

"Drunks," said Joe Lon picking up the bottle.”
― Harry Crews, A Feast of Snakes