I Just Go To Lunch. And I

And Off In The Far Distance, The Gold On The Wings Of The Angel Atop The Bell Tower Of San Marco Flashed In The Sun, Bathing The Entire City In Its Glistening Benediction.

I Never Know What's Going To Happen In A Novel. I Don't Have A Plan Or An Outline.

I Know You Shouldn't Spit In Your Own Soup But I Think Most Crime Writing Is Like Tv And Doesn't Make Enormous Demands On One's Intellect.

I Was Extraordinarily Lucky. I Wrote A Book Because I Wanted To See If I Could Write A Mystery. Someone Nagged Me Into Sending It To A Contest, Which It Won, After Which I Was Offered A Two-book Contract, Thus Requiring The Writing Of A Second Book.

This Is A Fallen World. People Lie, The Truth Gets Distorted, And That's The Way It Is. What's For Dinner ?