I Write Fiction. I Make Things Up,

I Tell You, My Friends,’ He Said One Day. ‘i Tell You That I Am The Only Sane Man In The Regiment. It’s The Others That Are Mad, But They Don’t Know It. They Fight A War And They Don’t Know What For. Isn’t That Crazy? How Can One Man Kill Another And Not Really Know The Reason Why He Does It, Except That The Other Man Wears A Different Colour Uniform And Speaks A Different Language? And It’s Me They Call Mad!

I Fill Up The Well Of Stories In My Head - Without Ever Knowing I'm Doing It.

There's A Mouse In Here With Me. He's Sitting There In The Light Of The Lamp, Looking Up At Me. He Seems As Surprised To See Me As I Am To See Him. There He Goes. I Can Hear Him Still, Scurrying About Somewhere Under The Hayrick. I Think He's Gone Now. I Hope He Comes Back. I Miss Him Already.

Perhaps It Is Partly That We Need To Love Books Ourselves As Parents, Grandparents And Teachers In Order To Pass On That Passion For Stories To Our Children. It's Not About Testing And Reading Schemes, But About Loving Stories And Passing On That Passion To Our Children.

I Can Hate You More, But I'll Never Love You Less.