Writing Is A Solitary Occupation.

Wyrd Bith Ful Araed (fate Is Inexorable).

I'm Fortunate That The Books Sell, But Even More Fortunate To Live In Chatham, To Be Very Happily Married And To Have, On The Whole, A Fairly Clear Conscience.

There Are Seasons Of Our Lives When Nothing Seems To Be Happening, When No Smoke Betrays A Burned Town Or Homestead And Few Tears Are Shed For The Newly Dead. I Have Learned Not To Trust Those Times, Because If The World Is At Peace Then It Means Someone Is Planning War.

The Bards Sing Of Love, They Celebrate Slaughter, They Extol Kings And Flatter Queens, But Were I A Poet I Would Write In Praise Of Friendship.

‎our Ancestors Took This Land. They Took It And Made It And Held It. We Do Not Give Up What Our Ancestors Gave Us. They Came Across The Sea And They Fought Here, And They Built Here And They're Buried Here. This Is Our Land, Mixed With Our Blood, Strengthened With Our Bone. Ours!