Like A Domestic Cat, Purring

We Came In The Wind Of The Carnival. A Wind Of Change, Or Promises. The Merry Wind, The Magical Wind, Making March Hares Of Everyone, Tumbling Blossoms And Coat-tails And Hats; Rushing Towards Summer In A Frenzy Of Exuberance.

I'm Incapable Of Hiding My Feelings When I'm Around Someone I Don't Like.

I Don't Listen To Music When I'm Writing, But I Often Do When I'm Reworking, Editing Or When I Need To Relax.

Sheep Are Not The Docile, Pleasant Creatures Of The Pastoral Idyll. Any Countryman Will Tell You That. They Are Sly, Occasionally Vicious, Pathologically Stupid. The Lenient Shepherd May Find His Flock Unruly, Definant. I Cannot Afford To Be Lenient.

I Don't Think I've Ever Had A Mentor. The Closest Thing Is My Friend Christopher Fowler, Another Writer. Chris Kept Me Sane For A Long Time Before I Made It.