And they drank heavily, partied with great enthusiasm, and relished the drug culture; they moved in and out and slept around, and this was okay because they defined their own morality. They were fighting for the Mexicans and the redwoods, dammit! They had to be good people!

There's always such a rush to judgment. It makes a fair trial hard to get.

Stephen King reached out to me twenty-five years ago and taught me some valuable lessons. In return, I've tried to be generous with my time over the years with young writers. I've given them my email and said if you need someone to talk to, I've been through it.

I have learned not to read reviews. Period. And I hate reviewers. All of them, or at least all but two or three. Life is much simpler ignoring reviews and the nasty people who write them. Critics should find meaningful work.

When witnesses concoct lies, they often miss the obvious.

It's as if we spend our entire lives avoiding Jell-O but it is always there at the end, waiting.

Because I was single, there was a chance I was a homosexual. Because I went to Syracuse, wherever that was, then I was probably a Communist. Or worse, a Liberal. Because I was from Memphis, I was a subversive intent on embarrassing Ford County.