In real life, good people die all the time and a**holes can live long and happy lives. It's a crapshoot.

I think the internet is a great marketing tool--but marketing is not my job. I'm a writer. My job is to write novels.

Horror writers can write about everything in the real world that a mainstream novelist can--plus the supernatural, which is the most fertile field for metaphor imaginable.

A light wind blew through here that carried with it scents of sadness and loss, not recognizable odors but smells that corresponded to nothing, chimerical fragrances able to evoke melancholic memories.

If there's any mystery to me at all, it's probably due to the fact that I'm not online and don't go to conventions--which means that I'm probably not as accessible to fans as most writers are these days. If that makes me seem like a weird recluse, so be it.

There were shadows galore in the dim light, but there was one shadow that did not correspond to any object in the room. It lurked next to the fireplace, a formless, undulating darkness.

An enigma? That's not a bad persona to have. I should probably shut up and let the mystery continue! It's good for my career.