Do you see that out there? The strange, unfamiliar light? It's called the sun. Let's go get us a little.

For over a year I continued to submit mss, and have them rejected - the last few with rejection letters indicated the story was pretty good, but I was American.

He had realised that most vital of humanities. he had touched lives. And he had raised three boys that no one had wanted into men.

Listen carefully. I'd crush you like a bug for causing my wife one single moment of pain. Believe it. Fear it.

I loved the process of writing.

Fate. You could never anticipate it.

I didn't get fired." "You didn't punch your boss and get fired from the Tribune? That's what I heard." "I punched what could loosely be called a colleague for cribbing my notes on a story and since the editor–who happened to be the asshole's uncle–took his word over mine, I quit." "To write books. Is it fun?" "I guess it is." "I bet you killed the asshole in the first one you wrote." "You'd be right. Beat him to death with a shovel. Very satisfying.