I Am Haunted By The Ghost Of

Even The Air Feels Different On Halloween, Autumn-crisp And Bright.

This Is, In Part, Why There Is Less Magic In The World Today. Magic Is Secret And Secrets Are Magic, After All, And Years Upon Years Of Teaching And Sharing Magic And Worse. Writing It Down In Fancy Books That Get All Dusty With Age Has Lessened It, Removed Its Power Bit By Bit.

I Draft Quickly And Then Revise, A Lot.

Which Tent Is Your Favourite?" He Asks. "the Ice Garden," Celia Answers, Without Even Pausing To Consider. "why Is That?" Marco Asks. "because Of The Way It Feels," She Says. "it's Like Walking Into A Dream. As Though It Is Someplace Else Entirely And Not Simply Another Tent.

I Find I Think Of Myself Not As A Writer So Much As Someone Who Provides A Gateway, A Tangential Route For Readers To Reach The Circus. To Visit The Circus Again, If Only In Their Minds, When They Are Unable To Attend It Physically. I Relay It Through Printed Words On Crumpled Newsprint, Words That They Can Read Again And Again, Returning To The Circus Whenever They Wish, Regardless Of Time Of Day Or Physical Location. Transporting Them At Will. When Put That Way, It Sounds Rather Like Magic, Doesn't It? P.369