This Is The Forked Tongue

The Only Bad Days As A Writer Are The Ones When You Are Too Cowardly Or Too Lazy To Sit Down At The Keyboard And Give It Everything You Have.

I Was Astonished To Find That The Positions My Grandfather Had Defended Were Now Overgrown And Entangled With Trees And Thorns. I Suppose I Had Developed A Sense Of Reverence For The Locations He Described In His Memoirs And Letters - The Forts And The High Emplacements. I Had Expected Them To Have Been Preserved In Some Way.

When I Reached Fort Binjemma, For Example, Where My Grandfather Was Stationed For A While, The Whole Victorian Fort Was Decaying. Barbed Wire Surrounded It, Spray Paint On The Ancient Walls Claimed It As Private Property, And The Moat Where My Grandfather And His Men Had Grown Crops - In Desperation As The Siege's Hunger Bit - Was Completely Overgrown With Bushes And Trees.

So When I Say That I Am A Refugee, You Must Understand That There Is No Refuge.

Studying Psychology Is Fun Because You're Always Looking For The Same Things I Think A Writer Should Be Looking For, Which Is The Story Behind The Story.