Why I Write

Why I Write

When I was young, books were an escape from an often difficult reality. Actually, no. “escape” is the wrong word. It implies I wanted to run away, and as a child, I wasn’t aware things could be different, so the desire to escape didn’t figure. Books were a way of...
“I have a house…”

“I have a house…”

Far from here, a world away in time and distance, a house patiently waits for me. In my mind it’s a perfectly preserved figurine in the centre of a snow-globe. Time there stands still, forever in freeze-frame, like the old grandfather clock in the nursery rhyme...
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