Imagine a mosaic picture of a house in the country: lots of red and blue and yellow and black and brown and white and a dozen different shades of green tiles which make a beautiful picture if you stand back far enough. All the little red squares are true - true things, true places, true feelings. But the red squares aren't the picture. All the rest of it is lies and stories, often within the same sentence.

Nothing’s changed. You’ll go home. You’ll be bored. You’ll be ignored. No one will listen to you, really listen to you. You’re too clever and too quiet for them to understand. They don’t even get your name right.

An Angel who did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards.

I was always so relieved that anyone wants to publish anything I've written.

We save our lives in such unlikely ways.

I am amiable. Vague. Puzzled. Messy-haired.

Finish what you're writing. Whatever you have to do to finish it, finish it.