I love the end of the film version of NAKED LUNCH. When Peter Weller, as William Burroughs, is crossing the Interzone border, he’s stopped by guards, who ask him his occupation. He tells them he’s a writer, and they ask him to prove it. So he draws a gun and turns to Judy Davis, in the back seat, telling her it’s time for their William Tell act.
Because, in Faulkner’s words, writers must kill all their darlings.