Writing a novel that works is an extremely difficult thing to do. It requires a level of skill and dedication that always surprises me.

Look how black the sky is, the writer said. I made it that way.

She sits before me, sullen but hopeful, characterless, about to dissolve into tears. I squeeze her hand back, moved, no, touched by her ignorance of evil. She has one more test to pass. Do you own a briefcase?” I ask her, swallowing.

I went to college in Vermont, and then stayed in the East Coast.

I felt lethal, on the verge of frenzy. My nightly bloodlust overflowed into my days and I had to leave the city. My mask of sanity was a victim of impending slippage. This was the bone season for me and I needed a vacation.

I do tend to look at my books in many ways as conceptual fiction, even to the point where I think the author's photograph is part of the package. And I have gone out of my way to select the photograph to connect to the subject matter of each book.

Exploitation is a harsh word, I know that, but on a certain level, to me that is the central Hollywood story.