It was really just the name that inspired me: Rainsboro. It's located near Rocky Fork State Park. I have probably driven through that little place a thousand times, but, in that weird way my mind works sometimes, one particular evening it just hit me the right way, I guess. Created a mood more than anything else. And then I started thinking about a woman and her young son who end up there.

It depends on what your dream might be, as to whether or not it's still possible when you're, say, fifty or sixty. You won't ever pitch for the big leagues, for example. But I believe anyone, regardless of age, can write if he or she is willing to do the work, and I'm talking about spending at least an hour or two at it almost every day for five to ten years.

I'm beginning to believe that anything I do to extend my life is just going to be outweighed by the agony of living it.

I started going to Ohio University when I was in my mid-thirties, ended up with an English degree when I was forty.

I sort of like writing about weird characters, I guess.

When I turned fifty, I decided to quit the mill and go to graduate school.

I really have no idea where the darkness comes from. Other writers have said that there are two subjects worth writing about, love and death; and since I'm a complete flop when it comes to love, I chose death. Too, maybe because of where I came from, I do find it easy to empathise with and write about certain groups of damaged or downtrodden people: the poor, the addicted.