That was when the world wasn't so big and I could see everywhere. It was when my father was a hero and not a human.

I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves; the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.

Very quickly, very suddenly, words fell through my mind. They landed on the floor of my thoughts, and in there, down there, I started to pick the words up. They were excerpts of truth gathered from inside me.

That's typically what writers do; we just sit around complaining most of the time. And the better things are going, the more they complain.

For a moment, I panic. It's that feeling of falling when you know without question, that you've lost control of your car, or made a mistake that's beyond repair. 'What do I do now?' I ask desperately. 'Tell me! What do I do now?' He remains calm. He looks at me closely and says, 'Keep living, Ed... It's only the pages that stop here.

Our footsteps run, and I don't want them to end. I want to run and laugh and feel like this forever. I want to avoid any awkward moment when the realness of reality sticks its fork into our flesh, leaving us standing there, together. I want to stay here, in this moment, and never go to other places, where we don't know what to say or what to do.

Every time you find something that doesn't work, you're a step closer to what does work.