I can't tell you any more than any other writer can tell you why they write, and I don't know what my influences are.

I started writing to please myself, a story I would like to read, and that is still true.

She loved him, more than she could ever find words for, but this love he felt for her was not quite the same. It wasn't so much stronger, as more demanding, more insistent. As though he feared he would lose that which he had finally won.

Illness and accidents were mysterious manifestations of the war of the spirits, fought on the battleground of the body.

I'm just writing a story that I want to read.

Again Creb grunted. It was the usual noncommittal comment used by men when responding to a woman. It carried only enough meaning to indicate the woman had been understood, without acknowledging too much significance in what she said.

It took some time to gather the research and develop it into the storyline, and to finally finish an origin myth poem that I had been working on for twenty years.