A Thing Named Is A Thing Tamed.

I Like Autumn. The Drama Of It; The Golden Lion Roaring Through The Back Door Of The Year, Shaking Its Mane Of Leaves. A Dangerous Time; Of Violent Rages And Deceptive Calm, Of Fireworks In The Pockets And Conkers In The Fist.

I Sell Dreams, Small Comforts, Sweet Harmless Temptations To Bring Down A Multitude Of Saints Crashing Among The Hazels And Nougatines

If Wishes Were Horses, Beggars Would Ride.

The Process Of Writing Is A Little Like Madness, A Kind Of Possession Not Altogether Benign.

If You Can Still Write In Spite Of The Fact That You're Not Getting Paid, That Nobody Cares About What You're Writing, That Nobody Wants To Publish It, That Everybody Is Telling You To Do Something Else, And You Still Want To And You Still Enjoy It And You Can't Stop Doing It...then You're A Writer.