Writing, for me, is always a dance between the critical part of my brain and the subconscious.

But every age deserves its fashion and its forms, and no one can control what survives.

We grow, we mature, some of us give birth, we age, we die.

Things, very strange things, happen in folktales and there is never much attention given to the whys and wherefores.

Because answers are inert things that stop inquiry. They make you think you have finished looking. But you are never finished. There are always discoveries that will turn everything you think you know on its head and that will make you ask all over again: Who are we?

Why did people try to shush trouble away as if it were an unruly child?

I guess I'm drawn to stories of people whose physicality puts them on the outside of things in order to explore the ways in which an identity is formed around these prevailing attitudes.