The actual Blue Rose murders, which lie at the core of the three novels, yield various incorrect solutions which assume the status of truth.
Each new book is a tremendous challenge.
If I planned everything out in advance, I'd expire of boredom.
An average working day begins at 8 or 9 am, includes an hour for lunch, and ends at 5 or 6 pm.
Dick Dart emerged from the ether during a flight from New York with my wife and children to Puerto Rico.
However, I think I managed to reach a new level with Koko, and I will always be grateful for the experience.
As soon as I started writing Julia, by which I mean while writing its first sentence, I felt a sudden, reassuring charge of excitement. I knew it was going to work.
On gym days, I don't get to my desk until 4 in the afternoon, and everything except bedtime and the appointment with the liquid narcotic is pushed back a bit.
Fear and I were old buddies, despite my best efforts to the contrary.
Instead, I was interested in what I guess I could call narrative indeterminacy, in questioning the apparent, taken-for-granted authority of any particular representation of the events in question.
There have been times when I reread - or at least leafed through - something because I'd sent a copy to a friend, and what usually happened was that I noticed dozens and dozens of clumsy phrases I wished I could rewrite.
There were a lot of adventure books for boys, historical novels by Kenneth Roberts, and whatever mystery novels the alarmed librarian imagined might not corrupt an eager but innocent youth.
When, in the third book, we do learn the identity of the Blue Rose murderer, the information comes in a muted, nearly off-hand manner, and the man has died long before.
I believe I encountered death, which was a bit too much for a seven-year-old.
I had a connoisseur's... appreciation of fear.
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