I don't tend to do category fiction very well. One of my problems when I was starting off was that publishers were hesitant to handle my books because they were never sure what I was going to do next.

Everything comes home, my mother used to say; every word spoken, every shadow cast, every footprint in the sand. It can't be helped; it's part of what makes us who we are.

Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.

I sell dreams, small comforts, sweet harmless temptations to bring down a multitude of saints crashing among the hazels and nougatines

Change isn't always comfortable, but it is a fact of life.

I'm incapable of hiding my feelings when I'm around someone I don't like.

I'm phobic about the idea of being constrained.