Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.

I tend not to think about the reading public at all, or the business, when I'm writing.

I have to convince myself that this is not a pointless life, even the body is telling me so.

All right. Let's give you something to tell your grandkids about. Or great-grandkids. Or great-great-grandkids." I snort with glee, delirious with excitement. Charlie winks and pours me another finger's worth of whiskey. Then, on second thought, he tips the bottle again. I reach out and grab its neck. "Better not," I say. "Don't want to get tipsy and break a hip.

I am ninety. Or ninety-three. One or the other.

The only thing that makes me crazier than writing is not writing.

When will people learn that just because you can make something doesn’t mean you should?