I write letters to my right brain all the time. They're just little notes. And right brain, who likes to get little notes from me, will often come through within a day or two.

Having reached the halfway mark in the alphabet, my prime focus is on writing each new book as well as I can.

Age plays cruel tricks on the human face; all our repressed feelings become visible on the surface, where they harden like a mask.

Kinsey was never a lawyer. She's strictly blue collar.

I spent the first twenty years of my writing career preparing for the mystery genre, which is my favorite literary form.

I write because it's all I know how to do. Writing is my anchor and my purpose. My life is informed by writing, whether the work is going well or I'm stuck in the hell of writer's block, which I'm happy to report only occurs about once a day.

So much of the past in encapsulated in the odds and ends. Most of us discard more information about ourselves than we ever care to preserve. Our recollection of the past is not simply distorted by our faulty perception of events remembered but skewed by those forgotten. The memory is like twin orbiting stars, one visible, one dark, the trajectory of what's evident forever affected by the gravity of what's concealed.