I don't really consider myself a novelist, it just came out purely by accident.

We live in a materialist world, and materialism appeals so strongly to humanity, no matter where.

I'm not one of those writers I learned about who get up in the morning, put a piece of paper in their typewriter machine and start writing. That I've never understood.

I cannot accept the definition of collective good as articulated by a privileged minority in society, especially when that minority is in power.

Only 4 sets of people can vote for the PDP: (1) those who are intellectually blind; (2) those who are blinded by ethnicity; (3) those who are blinded by corruption and therefore afraid of the unknown, should power change hands; and finally (4) those who are suffering from a combination of the above terminal sicknesses.

Writers are human. I shudder to think how I must sometimes appear to others.

Each time I think Ive created time for myself, along comes a throwback to disrupt my private space.