Very Little Happens In My Books.

Sundays In France Have A Different Atmosphere To Other Days, With Fewer Phone Calls, No Postman, No Delivery Men And No One Banging On The Door.

Why Not Make A Daily Pleasure Out A Daily Necessity.

Prescription For Writer’s Block: Fear Of Poverty.

Best Advice I've Ever Received: Finish.

Day After Day We Looked For Rain, And Day After Day We Saw Nothing But The Sun. Lavender That We Had Planted In The Spring Died. The Patch Of Grass In Front Of The House Abandoned Its Ambitions To Become A Lawn And Turned Into The Dirty Yellow Of Poor Straw. The Earth Shrank, Revealing Its Knuckles And Bones, Rocks And Roots That Had Been Invisible Before.