Cats Gotta Scratch. Dogs Gotta Bite. I

There Are A Lot Of Ellroy Lifts, Man. This Guy Went To School. But Then There's A Willful Thing That Comes Over Me - God Gives It To Me - Where I Go, "that's Real Nice, Let's Just Go Home, Pat Yourself On The Back, Good Dog, Good Dog, And Wake Up In The Morning And Go To Work."

I Don't Have A Cellphone Or A Computer. I Deliberately Circumscribe My Mental Life Within The Periods That I Write About, And The Power Of Perfidia Is That It's The Result Of Complete Immersion. I Was There For The Two Years That It Took Me To Write That Book.

The 250-page Outline For American Tabloid. The Books Are So Dense. They're So Complex, You Cannot Write Like I Write Off The Top Of Your Head. It's The Combination Of That Meticulousness And The Power Of The Prose And, I Think, The Depth Of The Characterizations And The Risks That I've Taken With Language That Give The Books Their Clout. And That's Where I Get Pissed Off At A Lot Of My Younger Readers.

I'm Getting A Wider Circle Of Fans Now. More Women, More Middle Class People.

She Quoted A Dead Playwright And Called Me A Bullet With Nothing But A Future. She Understood My Lack Of Self-pity. She Knew Why I Despised Everything That Might Restrict My Forward Momentum. She Knew That Bullets Have No Conscience. They Speed Past Things And Miss Their Marks As Often As They Hit Them.