A light wind blew through here that carried with it scents of sadness and loss, not recognizable odors but smells that corresponded to nothing, chimerical fragrances able to evoke melancholic memories.

I write what I want to write. Period. I don't write novels-for-hire using media tie-in characters, I don't write suspense novels or thrillers. I write horror. And if no one wants to buy my books, I'll just keep writing them until they do sell--and get a job at Taco Bell in the meantime.

I always thought the appeal for vampires are the same as religion, the desire to avoid death and live forever.

In real life, good people die all the time and a**holes can live long and happy lives. It's a crapshoot.

Real life was messier than fiction, and in it you didn't always have time to do or say the right things.

I think the internet is a great marketing tool--but marketing is not my job. I'm a writer. My job is to write novels.

Life is short. Eternity is long.

Like most authors, I'm a raging egomaniac. I know that about myself. And I know that, if I had internet access, I would waste countless hours looking up things about myself, writing fake posts about how great I am and arguing with people who don't like my work. It saves me a lot of time and frustration to just stay out of the loop.

Names have power. In certain cultures, just speaking a man's name gives you mastery over him.

Murder is an inherently evil act, no matter what the circumstances, no matter how convincing the rationalizations.