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

Truth and dreams are always getting muddled.

Anything seems possible at night when the rest of the world has gone to sleep.

Everybody's got the seam of goodness in them, Kit," said Grandpa. "Just a matter of whether it can be found and brought out into the light.

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.

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.

Words should wander and meander. They should fly like owls and flicker like bats and slip like cats. They should murmur and scream and dance and sing.