Children don’t require of their parents a past and they find something faintly unbelievable, almost embarrassing, in parental claims to a prior existence.

In real life turning points are sneaky. They pass by unlabeled and unheeded. Opportunities are missed, catastrophes unwittingly celebrated. Turning points are only uncovered later, by historians who seek to bring order to a lifetime of tangled moments.

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

Only people unhappy in the present seek to know the future.

She'd slept terribly the night before. The room, the bed, were both comfortable enough, but she'd been plagued with strange dreams, the sort that lingered upon waking but slithered away from memory as she tried to grasp them. Only the tendrils of discomfort remained.

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

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