They say that shoulder blades are where your wings were, when you were an angel," she said. "They say they're where your wings will grow again one day.

My work explores the frontier between rationalism and superstition and the wavering boundary between the two.

I sit in my tree I sing like the birds My beak is my pen My songs are my poems.

Yes. But sad's alright. Sad's just apart of everything

The best tip for writing is just to write; to sit down and write, to begin doing it and not to be scared by the blank page.

Truth and dreams are always getting muddled.

She finds tales everywhere, in grains of sand she picks up from the garden, in puffs of smoke that drift out from the chimneys of the village, in fragments of smooth timber or glass in the jetsam. She will ask them, "Where did you come from? How did you get here?" And they will answer her in voices very like her own, but with new lilts and squeaks and splashes in them that show they are their own.