Drifting into the back nine of life, you take stock of your achievements and the likelihood of anything comparable to come. Negligible and not likely.

Probably the best and only way to approach the whole writing thing is to remember that it is a JOB. And so I've been an unemployed writer through most of my writing career.

When I came home today and I saw you sleeping your eyelids were flickering, showing that you were in REM sleep, dreaming. At that moment it really hit me that you are a little person, you looked like a small adult in all her seriousness at that moment. What were you dreaming of as you twitched in your sleep?

Everyone wants immortality but nobody wants to pay the price.

The roads were bending at insane crazy hairpin angles. From the bottom of the mountain they were a formidable, terrifyingly beautiful sight. To hit those roads was like an invitation to the other side. But this was where I wanted to be, in the higher ground.

Some days it is enough just to still be alive.

I sometimes think how good it would be to write another novel, or at least make a start. But there are already enough words in the world, already too many. And how can my story compete with all the acres of crap that fill the shelves of our bookstores?

We love to think we are free but who do we really think we're kidding?