Screw poetry, it’s you I want, your taste, rain on you, mouth on your skin.

All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel.

I planned my death carefully, unlike my life, which meandered along from one thing to another, despite my feeble attempts to control it.

Blank pages inspire me with terror.

Canada, at the moment, is going through a Lord of the Rings moment. Having been a lowly Hobbit with furry feet and fun parties, with fireworks and beer, it has now been handed the Ring of Power: a large supply of fossil fuel, in the form of oil/tar sand and coal. Will it shrivel into an evil RingWraith? Will it become an addicted Golum? Will it refuse the Ring, like Galadriel, fearful of what So Much Power (in both senses of the word) will do to its inner being? Will it try to deal with the Ring responsibly, like Gandalf? Will it side with the Ents?

The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read.

I learned to read very early so I could read the comics, which I then started to draw.