Love - true love - is a precious thing. It is painful, uncomfortable, makes fools of us all, but it is what breathes meaning and color and purpose into our lives.

There’s only one difference between published and unpublished writers, and it is this -- the first group see their work in print on the shelves of Waterstone’s or Tesco or online at Amazon; the second group are yet to have physical evidence of the hours, weeks, years spent fashioning words into their patterns. You are already a writer.

I really like people and I keep friendships. I have people from all parts of my life.

Too often I am jealous and my jealousy leads me to say things-things-that I regret.

For when all else is done, on­ly words re­main. Words en­dure.

The dead leave their shadows, an echo of the space within which once they lived. They haunt us, never fading or growing older as we do. The loss we grieve is not just their futures but our own.

People have different views of how you deal with different issues in literature, and, frankly, long may it last that there is a range of views.