My stuff gets published in some countries as fiction and in some countries as fantasy. It's just where they think it will do best in the bookshops.

So many things to see, people to do.

And then it went, and time passed properly once more, every second following every other second just like they're meant to.

You know what killed off the dinosaurs, Whateley? We did. In one barbecue.

Doing fine, thank you, I would say, never knowing how to talk about what I do. If I could talk about it, I would not have to do it. I make art, sometimes I make true art, and sometimes it fills the empty places in my heart. Some of them. Not all.

We have an obligation to read aloud to our children. To read them things they enjoy. To read to them stories we are already tired of. To do the voices, to make it interesting, and not to stop reading to them just because they learn to read to themselves. Use reading-aloud time as bonding time, as time when no phones are being checked, when the distractions of the world are put aside.

I'm never, I hope, stupid enough to believe that Twitter or blogging or any of this stuff is a substitute for actually doing the work or writing a book.