The law don't like jazz clubs. No one wants anything to do with that kind of trouble.

She wishes her grandmother had not been so protective, and that she understood better what passes between a man and woman. As it is, she simply enjoys the feelings and wonders if they are what lightning is made of, for everything comes back to the weather. Tears like rain. Smiles like the sun. Hair as dry as sand and fear like the dark ocean.

Something I notice speaking to writers from south of Hadrians Wall is that the culture is different. At base, I think Scotland values its creative industries differently from England.

Writers need each other.

Writers of novels live in a strange world where what's made up is as important as what's real.

For a novelist, the gaps in a story are as intriguing as material that still exists.

I always thought that bagels and lox was my soul food, but it turns out it's sushi.