Oh, there was harm indeed for a young lady flattered by the brief attentions of a handsome man.

She's one of the few people able to look beyond the lines on my face to see the twenty-year-old who lives inside.

People might think writing is a hard business, but it's nowhere near acting.

She doesn't know I cry for the changing times. That just as I reread favourite books, some small part of me hoping for a different ending, I find myself hoping against hope that the war will never come. That this time, somehow, it will leave us be.

But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .

Cassandra wondered at the mind's cruel ability to toss up flecks of the past. Why, as she neared her life's end, her grandmother's head should ring with the voices of people long since gone. Was it always this way? Did those with passage booked on death's silent ship always scan the dock for faces of the long-departed?

I write what I'd like to read and just hope that, along the way, others might like to read them, too.