I held out my book. It was precious to me, as were all the things I'd written; even where I despised their inadequacy there was not one I would disown. Each tore its way from my entrails. Each had shortened my life, killed me with its own special little death.
Im a devotee of Dracula, which was a pathfinder in horror and vampire fiction.
Whatever the hell I am, I am Me.
Hope is a punishable offense. The verdict is always death; one more death of the heart.
I've been criticised for writing in too complex a manner for younger people.
Maidens who stay maidens turn into saints. Old women become sorceresses. Tough jobs, both of these.