I'm not a dedicated writer in the sense of Stephen King.

I am not like Stephen King, who writes one book, then writes another. I finish a book and go off and... look for wrecks. Then, six months later, I might start another book.

God is cruel. Sometimes he makes you live.

The world had teeth and it could bite you with them anytime it wanted.

So do we pass the ghosts that haunt us later in our lives; they sit undramatically by the roadside like poor beggars, and we see them only from the corners of our eyes, if we see them at all. The idea that they have been waiting there for us rarely crosses our minds. Yet they do wait, and when we have passed, they gather up their bundles of memory and fall in behind, treading in our footsteps and catching up, little by little.

I'm one of those people who doesn't really know what he thinks until he writes it down.