And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for 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.

Very suddenly. Yes, quite suddenly, I didn't feel like I could handle my feeling of aloneness.

Summer came. For the books thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews.

A halo surrounded the grim reaper nun, Sister Maria. (By the way-I like this human idea of the grim reaper. I like the scythe. It amuses me.)

I'm asking you, I'm begging you, could you please shut your mouth for just five minutes?" You can imagine the reaction. They ended up in the basement.

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.