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

Art was as much in the activity as in the results. Works of art were not just the finished product, but the thought, the action, the process that created them.

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.

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

They stared at each other, wanting each other, drawn to each other, but their silent shout of love went unheard in the roar of misunderstanding, and the clatter of culturally ingrained beliefs.

I had tears coming out of my eyes. And it was the characters that got me there.

Though my books are written from a historical perspective, I have goon so far back that I am in the realm of prehistorical speculation rather than simple historical fact to weave my stories around.