No One Is Drawn To Writing About

I Do Tend To Look At My Books In Many Ways As Conceptual Fiction, Even To The Point Where I Think The Author's Photograph Is Part Of The Package. And I Have Gone Out Of My Way To Select The Photograph To Connect To The Subject Matter Of Each Book.

You Really Write The Books You Want To Write. You Can't Take Into Consideration Anything That Anybody Has Said About You In The Past, Or What They'll Say About You In The Future.

A Great Numb Feeling Washes Over Me As I Let Go Of The Past And Look Forward To The Future. Pretend To Be A Vampire. I Don't Really Need To Pretend, Because It's Who I Am, An Emotional Vampire. I've Just Come To Expect It. Vampires Are Real. That I Was Born This Way. That I Feed Off Of Other People's Real Emotions. Search For This Night's Prey. Who Will It Be?

The Numbing Lists Of Things You Were Supposed To Have As An American To Make You Happy, Which Ultimately, Of Course, Don't. Those Aren't The Things That Make You Happy.

At Columbus Circle, A Juggler Wearing A Trench Cloak And Top Hat, Who Is Usually At This Location Afternoons And Who Calls Himself Stretch Man, Performs In Front Of A Small, Uninterested Crowd; Though I Smell Prey, And He Seems Worthy Of My Wrath, I Move On In Search Of A Less Dorky Target. Though If He'd Been A Mime, Odds Are He'd Already Be Dead.