My box bedroom can only fit a bed and a wardrobe but it was my whole world. My only personal space to think and dream, to cry and laugh and wait until I became old enough to do all the things I wasn't allowed to do.

This house isn't mine anymore, but the memories are; the memories can't be sold. The building that housed my once-upon-a-time dreams stands for someone else now, as it did for the people before us, and I feel happy to let it go. Happy that I can begin again, anew, though bearing the scars of before. They represent wounds that have healed.

I just need to do something new.... I've got the big remote control of life in my hands, and I'm ready to start pushing some buttons.

Chin up, don’t smile, don’t cry, don’t fall, walk.

I write my novels longhand. I love the feeling of writing; I love to see pen on paper. It feels more creative than typing, and it's a more visual process for me - I can picture the entire scene in my head and am merely writing what I see.

Oh, that fighting for peace is like screwing for virginity.

Don't mind all those people who say that you should be back to normal in a month or two. Grieving is all part of helping yourself anyway.