Live As If You Like Yourself, And

Purple As Tulips In May, Mauve Into Lush Velvet, Purple As The Stain Blackberries Leave On The Lips, On The Hands, The Purple Of Ripe Grapes Sunlit And Warm As Flesh.

In Fiction, I Exercise My Nosiness. I Am As Curious As My Cats, And Indeed That Has Led To Trouble Often Enough And Used Up Several Of My Nine Lives. I Am An Avid Listener. I Am Fascinated By Other People's Lives, The Choices They Make And How That Works Out Through Time, What They Have Done And Left Undone, What They Tell Me And What They Keep Secret And Silent, What They Lie About And What They Confess, What They Are Proud Of And What Shames Them, What They Hope For And What They Fear. The Source Of My Fiction Is The Desire To Understand People And Their Choices Through Time.

History Is A Game Played Backwards Only.

The Real Writer Is One Who Really Writes. Talent Is An Invention Like Phlogiston After The Fact Of Fire. Work Is Its Own Cure. You Have To Like It Better Than Being Loved.

I Said, I Like My Life. If Ihave To Give It Back, If Theytake It From Me, Let Me Onlynot Feel I Wasted Any, Let Menot Feel I Forgot To Love Anyonei Meant To Love, That I Forgotto Give What I Held In My Hands,that I Forgot To Do Some Littlepiece Of The Work That Wantedto Come Through.