And all that weirdness isn't just going on outside. It's in you too, right now, growing in the dark like magic mushrooms. Call it the Thing in the Cellar. Call it the Blow Lunch Factor. Call it the Loony Tunes File. I think of it as my private dinosaur, huge, slimy, and mindless, stumbling around in the stinking swamp of my subconscious, never finding a tar pit big enough to hold it.

It's hard for me to believe that people who read very little (or not at all in some cases) should presume to write and expect people to like what they have written.

Weird love's better than no love at all.

Say what you mean. Say what you see. Make a photograph, if you can, for the reader.

We never know which lives we influence, or when, or why. Not until the future eats the present, anyway. We know when it's too late.

The world was the Overlook Hotel, where the party never ended. Where the dead were alive forever.

THE THREE is really wonderful. A mix of Michael Crichton and Shirley Jackson, hard to put down and vastly entertaining.