We're News Junkies In My House.

The First Draft Of A Book—even A Long One—should Take No More Than Three Months, The Length Of A Season.

Too Often, In Novels That Are Speculative, God Is A Kind Of Kryptonite, And That's About All That It Is, And It Goes Back To Dracula, Where Someone Dumps A Crucifix In Count Dracula's Face, And He Pulls Away And Runs Back Into His House. That's Not Religion. That's Some Kind Of Juju, Like A Talisman.

In Small Towns People Scent The Wind With Noses Of Uncommon Keenness.

All Is Forgotten In The Stone Halls Of The Dead. These Are The Rooms Of Ruin Where The Spiders Spin And The Great Circuits Fall Quiet, One By One.

One Only Wishes Wayne Lapierre And His Nra Board Of Directors Could Be Drafted To Some Of These Scenes, Where They Would Be Required To Put On Booties And Rubber Gloves And Help Clean Up The Blood, The Brains, And The Chunks Of Intestine Still Containing The Poor Wads Of Half-digested Food That Were Some Innocent Bystander's Last Meal.