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.

Writing is writing, and stories are stories. Perhaps the only true genres are fiction and nonfiction. And even there, who can be sure?

I also love Disney, and will defend doing so, because there's so much in those films and I don't care if it's stereotyped.

When I am fascinated by something, I like to play with it.

It gets cold in the desert at night, particularly up in the mountains; the stars hammer on the rock and strike frost.

A rose by any other name Would get the blame For being what it is-- The colour of a kiss, The shadow of a flame. A rose may earn another name, So call it love; So call it love I will, And love is like the sea, Which changes constantly, And yet is still The same.