I sound contemptuous, but I am not. I am interested--intrigued even--by the way time erases real lives, leaving only vague imprints. Blood and spirit fade away so that only names and dates remain.

I'd pretty much given up hope of being published, so I just wrote the book I wanted to read.

They say everyone needs something to love.

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

After all, it's the librarian's sworn purpose to bring books together with their one true reader.

She was the breeze on a summer's day, the first drops of rain when the earth was parched, light from the evening star.

In retrospect, it seems like everything in my life led to me becoming a writer. I just didn't realise it at the time.