It Was Easy Not To Think Of

I Like To Be Alone So I Can Write. But Focus Can Hurt You. I Don't Want To Be Some Stress Casualty In Early Middle Age.

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.

I Was In L.a. In '08. It Was A Cold Saturday Night. I Had Spread My Phone Number Out To A Score Of Women And Was Just Indulging This Sweet, Sad, Elegiac, Bale Loneliness - Don't Tell Me You Haven't Been There.

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."

Anything Less Than Total Candor Was Bullshit. I Owed That To My Readers, I Owed That To Myself, And I Owed That Most Specifically To My Mother. I've Had Some Thrilling Moments In My 18-year Literary Career To This Point, And Nothing Comes Close To Giving Geneva Hilliker Ellroy, The Farm Girl From Tunnel City, Wisconsin, To The World.