Dawn was coming. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

I only know one story. But oftentimes small pieces seem to be stories themselves.

Truth is a troublesome motherfucker unless it's handled properly

I don't think people need to know much about me to understand the book, or to enjoy it. The book stands by itself. Over the last several years, my life has been all about writing these books, but the books aren't about my life.

If I talk about what I'm good at, I seem like I'm a conceited egomaniac.

It's hard to be wrongfully accused, but it's worse when the people looking down on you are clods who have never read a book or traveled more than twenty miles from the place they were born.

Then I played the song that hides in the center of me. That wordless music that moves through the secret places in my heart. I played it carefully, strumming it slow and low into the dark stillness of the night. I would like to say it is a happy song, that it is sweet and bright, but it is not.