At this rate, I'd be lucky if I wrote a page a day. Then I knew what the problem was. I needed experience. How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die? A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures among the pygmies in Africa. How could I compete with that sort of thing?

What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security.

The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.

The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.

Not being perfect hurts.

Bright beads of red are rising through the ink, Hearts-blood bubbles smearing out into the black stream

I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.