You know what I did after I wrote my first novel? I shut up and wrote twenty-three more.

The characters I write about are very internal.

The setting sun burned the sky pink and orange in the same bright hues as surfers' bathing suits. It was beautiful deception, Bosch thought, as he drove north on the Hollywood Freeway to home. Sunsets did that here. Made you forget it was the smog that made their colors so brilliant, that behind every pretty picture there could be an ugly story.

I don't think anyone will believe me, but I've never been pressured by a publisher to churn out a book.

Money. The ultimate motivation. The ultimate way of keeping score.

I view people two ways. They're either eye-for-an-eye people or they are turn-the-cheek people.

I never miss L.A. because I'm there enough.