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I even dream about writing. I'm talking seeing words across the page, whole paragraphs.
I used to sit in my pickup truck at 7 o'clock in the morning outside my office and listen to the Replacements or something full blast, thinking, 'What am I doing here?'
There is nothing like the rumble of a dual-piped American car with something under the hood.
I can't relax. I don't have any hobbies.
My books are not for everybody.
I really feel like people who want to change things need to go out and change it themselves and not look to politicians to do that.
The cliche is that Washington is a transient town of people who blow in and out every four years with the new administrations. But the reality is that people have lived in Washington for generations, and their lives are worth examining, I think.
After college, I spent a decade working the kinds of jobs that I write about - bartender, shoe salesman, kitchen man - while voraciously reading novels.
At 11 years old, in 1968, my job was to deliver food on foot, so I spent my day walking around the city. I had an active imagination, jacked up by movies. I passed the time making up stories and serializing them.
If I had my druthers, I wouldn't have anyone's words in my script but my own, but if you want complete autonomy, just stick to novels.
Can't get my head around sci-fi or fantasy. I'm not putting those genres down; it's just that I'm not built for them.
Richmond Fontaine bandleader Willy Vlautin writes songs akin to finely composed short stories set in the diners, bars, casinos, and old hotels of Reno and its environs.
My favorite movies are from the '70s.
Sometimes there's a reason for the hype.
The thirst for knowledge is like a piece of ass you know you shouldn't chase; in the end, you chase it just the same.
We get schooled by the people around us, and it stays inside us deep.
Top-shelf fiction, a Crown Royal ride into the heart of Night and New York. Con Lehane's work is reminiscent of the best of Lawrence Block, which is to say that this is very good stuff, indeed.
Soon it began to drizzle for the second time that night. The drops grew heavier and became visible in the headlights of the cars. It was said by some of the police on the scene that God was crying for the girl in the garden. To others, it was only rain.
If the storytellers told it true, all stories would end in death.
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