The greatest sin for a writer is to be boring.

I think in the old days, the nexus of weirdness ran through Southern California, and to a degree New York City. I think it's changed so that every bizarre story in the country now has a Florida connection. I don't know why, except it must be some inversion of magnetic poles or something.

I’m waiting for the day when Rush Limbaugh’s pharmacist writes a book.

Mrs. Bonneville never buckled her seat belt, even though it was required by state law; an ardent libertarian, she opposed government meddling in all matters of personal choice.

It's easy to get distracted by the vaudevillian aspects of the healthcare debate.

The Florida in my novels is not as seedy as the real Florida. It's hard to stay ahead of the curve. Every time I write a scene that I think is the sickest thing I have ever dreamed up, it is surpassed by something that happens in real life.

I love reality shows. The folks who dream up some of these concepts are either geniuses, or totally stoned.