It had not been a long journey, but the memory of it filled her like an infection. She had felt tethered by time to the city behind her, so that the minutes stretched out taut as she moved away, and slowed the farther she got, dragging out her little voyage.

Ever since I was two, I've loved octopuses, monsters, abandoned buildings.

In every book I write, I try to name-check the most prominent influences, or the most prominent conscious influences.

I do, however, feel reasonably strongly the sense that the job of a piece of argumentative scholarly non-fiction is not the same as the job of a piece of fiction.

The summer stretched out the daylight as if on a rack. Each moment was drawn out until its anatomy collapsed. Time broke down. The day progressed in an endless sequence of dead moments.

So long as it fated, fate didn't care what it fated.

I'm a science fiction and fantasy geek.