I dream a lot, in colour and in sound and scent. Quite a few of my stories have come from dreams.

I don't listen to music when I'm writing, but I often do when I'm reworking, editing or when I need to relax.

Some books you read. Some books you enjoy. But some books just swallow you up, heart and soul.

Our lives are like these things I make. Turn 'em, build 'em, bake 'em in fire. That's what you've been, son. Baked and fired. But a pot don't have the right to choose whether he be for water, wine, or just left empty. You have, son. You have.

Life is what you celebrate. All of it. Even its end.

I'm insatiably curious.

The past is an obdurate stranger that puts as many marks on us as we attempt to impose on it.