I don't really map anything out. I just let it happen [while writing]. But once it happens, it's always there. If it's laid, it's played. If I get to page 300 and it's not working, I junk it.

Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink. Drink and be filled up.

Hapscomb's Texaco sat on Number 93 just north of Arnette, a pissant four-street burg about 110 miles from Houston.

He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.

If you were seeing a lot of horseshit, there had to be a pony in the vicinity.

But I think there are a set of experiences that turn a potential writer into a working writer, and then there are places in your life were you start to recognize what you want to do.

All is forgotten in the stone halls of the dead. These are the rooms of ruin where the spiders spin and the great circuits fall quiet, one by one.