It was lonely on the hill, and cold. And all you could do was keep going. You could scream, cry, and stamp your feet, but apart from making you feel warmer, it wouldn’t do any good. You could say it was unfair, and that was true, but the universe didn’t care because it didn’t know what “fair” meant. That was the big problem about being a witch. It was up to you. It was always up to you.

My character - and for that matter my worst habits - could only be described by someone else. You can't open a box with the crowbar inside it.

He was currently wondering vaguely who Moey and Chandon were.

Go on, prove me wrong. Destroy the fabric of the universe. See if I care.

I stroll along, talk, I sign books, people buy me drinks, I forget where my hotel is, I get lost and fall into some local body of water... done it hundreds of times.

I like being a writer.

People don't like to say Fantasy they say Magic Realism which means Fantasy written by somebody I went to university with.