Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.

I look at her wish we could go inside and make love on the couch. Dive inside each other. Take each other. Make each other. Nothing happens, though.

I'm having bigger problems when I'm writing.

I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.

Living in Sydney, I've taken the chance to start surfing again. One of my best memories of growing up is catching my first proper wave and surfing across it and my brother cheering at me from the shore.

All my friends seem to be smart arses. Don't ask me why. Like many things, it is what it is.

The point is, it didn’t really matter what the book was about. It was what it meant that was important.