I've been typed as a horror writer, and I've always said to people, "I don't care what you call me as long as the checks don't bounce and the family gets fed."

Deep inside her (ih her harrowed soul) she felt a glowing ember of fury at the man responsible for this. Tha man who had put her in this position. She looked at the pistol lying beside the basin, and knew that if he were here, she would use it on him without a moment's hesitation. Knowing that made her feel confused about herself. It also made her feel a little stronger.

Mornings belong to whatever is new; the current composition. Afternoons are for naps and letters.

You learned to accept, or you ended up in a small room writing letters home with Crayolas.

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

How else could he go on, except with merciful incomprehension held before him like a shield? How could anyone?

Well, I'm like a drug addict, I'm always saying I'm going to stop, and then I don't, what I've said consistently is that I hope I know when to stop: when it starts to get repetitive.