What began it all was the bright bone of a dream I could hardly hold onto.

A man in a desert can hold absence in his cupped hands, knowing it is something that feeds him more than water.

Fathers die.You keep on loving them in any way you can.You can't hide him away in your heart.

It doubles your perception, to write from the point of view of someone you're not.

I've always loved history and history is collage, it is a juxtaposition of the good and the bad and the strange, and how you place those sentences together changes the whole mood of a history.

Right now, I have no idea what I will write or if I will write again.

If she were a writer she would collect her pencils and notebooks and favourite cat and write in bed. Strangers and lovers would never get past the locked door.