I Tend Not To Analyse My Work,

I Held Out My Book. It Was Precious To Me, As Were All The Things I'd Written; Even Where I Despised Their Inadequacy There Was Not One I Would Disown. Each Tore Its Way From My Entrails. Each Had Shortened My Life, Killed Me With Its Own Special Little Death.

What Is Any Of This To Us? Time Is Endless And Ours. Love And Death Are Only The Games We Play In It.

I Simply Write What I Want, Wish, Long To Write.... The State Of Human Life And The God Or Demon Within. The Constant Internal War That Being Alive Can Conjure.

Writers Tell Stories Better, Because They've Had More Practice, But Everyone Has A Book In Them. Yes, That Old Cliche.

Genre Categories Are Irrelevant. I Dislike Them, But I Do Not Have The Casting Vote.