The Blood In My Veins Is Frozen

I'd Defend The Right For Any Novelist To Experiment With Form Or Language, But If People Don't Take To It, Don't React By Making Out That They Are Thick.

Recasting Fairy Tales Has Become A Publishing Sub-genre In Itself, And Has Been Done Both Well And To The Point Of Entropy. More Interesting Are Those Works Where The Structures Of Fairytales Are Abandoned But The World Of 'fairy' Is Imported As A Delicate Spice.

But There Are Times In Life When A Door Opens And You Are Offered A Glimpse Of The Light On The Water, And You Know That If You Don't Take It, That Door Slams Shut, And Maybe Forever. Maybe You Fool Yourself Into Thinking That You Had A Choice At All; Maybe You Were Always Going To Say Yes. Maybe Refusing Was No More A Choice Than Is Holding Your Breath. You Were Always Going To Breathe. You Were Always Going To Say Yes.

I've Been A Professional Writer For 20 Years, And There Are Contours In That Time, Crescents And Troughs.

The Bluebells Made Such A Pool That The Earth Had Become Like Water, And All The Trees And Bushes Seemed To Have Grown Out Of The Water. And The Sky Above Seemed To Have Fallen Down On To The Earth Floor; And I Didn’t Know If The Sky Was The Earth Or The Earth Was Water. I Had Been Turned Upside Down. I Had To Hold The Rock With My Fingernails To Stop Me Falling Into The Sky Of The Earth Or The Water Of The Sky. But I Couldn’t Hold On.