My Skin Has Turned To Porcelain, To

I Work For Two Years On A Book And It Comes Out And Two Days Later I've Got My First E-mail: When Is The Next One Coming Out?

The Morning Had Dawned Clear And Cold, With A Crispness That Hinted At The End Of Summer.

In Order To Get Inside Their Skin, I Have To Identify With Them. That Includes Even The Ones Who Are Complete Bastards, Nasty, Twisted, Deeply Flawed Human Beings With Serious Psychological Problems. Even Them. When I Get Inside Their Skin And Look Out Through Their Eyes, I Have To Feel A Certain - If Not Sympathy, Certainly Empathy For Them. I Have To Try To Perceive The World As They Do, And That Creates A Certain Amount Of Affection.

It's Really Irritating When You Open A Book, And 10 Pages Into It You Know That The Hero You Met On Page One Or Two Is Gonna Come Through Unscathed, Because He's The Hero. This Is Completely Unreal, And I Don't Like It.

Ned Was Clad In A White Linen Doublet With The Direwolf Of Stark On The Breast; His Black Wool Cloak Was Fastened At The Collar By His Silver Hand Of Office. Black And White And Grey, All The Shades Of Truth.