A new sickness invaded Jerry, the sickness of knowing what he had become, another animal, another beast, another violent person in a violent world, inflicting damage, not disturbing the universe but damaging it.
Family life was wonderful. The streets were bleak. The playgrounds were bleak. But home was always warm. My mother and father had a great relationship. I always felt ‘safe’ there.
I have always had a sense that we are all pretty much alone in life, particularly in adolescence.
A writer must take risks, defy the odds, be a bit obsessed and a little mad.
That’s what Archie did – built a house nobody could anticipate a need for, except himself, a house that was invisible to everyone else.
Cities fell. Earth opened. Planets tilted. Stars plummeted. And the awful silence.
A terrific sadness swept over Jerry. As if somebody had died. The way he felt standing in the cemetry that day they buried his mother. And nothing you could do about it.
You bring up your children to be self-reliant and independent and they double-cross you and become self-reliant and independent.
Archie became absolutely still, afraid that the rapid beating of his heart might betray his sudden knowledge, the proof of what he’d always suspected, not only of Brother Leon but most grownups, most adults: they were vulnerable, running scared, open to invasion.
He was intrigued by the power of words, not the literary words that filled the books in the library but the sharp, staccato words that went into the writing of news stories. Words that went for the jugular. Active verbs that danced and raced on the page.
Don’t miss the bus, boy. You’re missing a lot of things in the world, better not miss that bus.
I’m weary of the battle. But a tired fighter can still be a fighter.
My dream was to be known as a writer and to be able to produce at least one book that would be read by people. That dream came true with the publication of my first novel – and all the rest has been a sweet bonus.
I simply write with an intelligent reader in mind. I don’t think about how old they are.
You seldom get a censorship attempt from a 14-year-old boy. It’s the adults who get upset.
There are no taboos. Every topic is open, however shocking. It is the way that the topics are handled that’s important, and that applies whether it is a 15-year-old who is reading your book or someone who is 55.
I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t trying to get something down on paper.
I take real people and put them in extraordinary situations.
I’ve had aunts and uncles who not only haven’t read my books but could hardly believe that I was a writer.
It came to me that hell would not be fire and smoke after all but arctic, everything white and frigid. Hell would be not anger but indifference.
Why did the wise guys always accuse other people of being wise guys?