Thoughts, and words that spring from them, bend the individual's reality. To speak of death is to invite it. To think of sorrow is to produce it.

I am 82 years old. I imagine that I will keep on writing as long as anyone wants to keep reading.

Having grown up in Oklahoma when it was one of the last states which prohibited liquor, I grew up with War On Drugs, where every teenager knew who the bootleggers were

From where we stand the rain seems random. If we could stand somewhere else, we would see the order in it.

I always try to make the setting fit the story I have in mind.

How can you stop writing?

An author knows his landscape best; he can stand around, smell the wind, get a feel for his place.