This is the forked tongue of grief again. It whispers in one ear: return to what you once loved best, and in the other ear it whispers, move on.

If I can't write it would be as if I died.

Everyone carries the weight of WWII with them in their recent family history, and yet it is rarely spoken about within families, because veterans and survivors don't tend to talk.

Studying psychology is fun because you're always looking for the same things I think a writer should be looking for, which is the story behind the story.

The reason why I love people, and writing about them, is because they don't always respond with hate and anger. If they did I wouldn't have a story to tell. Who wants to know about someone who was brutalised and became brutal? I'm interested in the exceptions.

A scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived.

I was carrying two cargoes. Yes, one of them was horror, but the other one was hope.