Everyone knows that wizards are pigheaded and come to bad ends.
Topiary has always seemed like a good occupation, comparable in some ways to writing short fiction.
The world is a dangerous place, full of people who don’t trust each other. This is why I am staying up in this tree.
I don’t think I’m cut out for a job where you have to look professionally tidy. I prefer working in my pajamas and taking showers after lunch.
The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed and given to evil habits, or else it can be a man in his late forties who works too much, or it can be an alarm clock.
I don’t abandon stories once I’ve started working on them. Once I sit down and start a story, I’ll be damned if I’m going to give up on it. But I do reject most of the ideas for stories that I come up with.
In terms of style, too, I think I’ve been working with a somewhat limited – although intentionally limited – set of tools. So I’m attempting to be a bit looser as I start stories off. To digress. To make interesting mistakes.
Whether or not this story has a happy ending depends, of course, on who is reading it. Whether you are a wolf or a girl.
The zombies were like Canadians, in that they looked enough like real people at first, to fool you.
Remember, when you don’t know what to do, it never hurts to play Scrabble. It’s like reading the I Ching or tea leaves.
Part of you is always traveling faster, always traveling ahead. Even when you are moving, it is never fast enough to satisfy that part of you.
Sometimes it is safer to read maps with your feet.
No wizard has ever made himself useful by magic, or, if they’ve tried, they’ve only made matters worse. No wizard ever stopped a war or mended a fence. It’s better that they stay in their marshes, out of the way of worldly folk like farmers and soldiers and merchants and kings.
You should never poison a witch.
A monster. You and your friends, all of you. Pretty monsters. It’s a stage all girls go through. If you’re lucky you get through it without doing any permanent damage to yourself or anyone else.
You were going to travel for love, without shoes, or cloak, or common sense. This is one of the things a woman can do when her lover leaves her. It’s hard on the feet perhaps, but staying at home is hard on the heart, and you weren’t quite ready to give up on him yet.
I’d be flattered if someone said that my work is “too weird” for them. I value the uncompliment.
What I like about narrative in general is when there is some incongruity between the form and content. Let’s say, mixing up the gothic with a coming-of-age narrative. Telling a love story that’s also a monster story. Mixing up superhero tropes with your monster tropes. I like category confusion.
As if our happiness, our good fortune, might rub off, contestants ask us for a light: they brush up against us in the halls, pull strands of hair off our clothing. Whenever we leave our bed, our room – not often – two or three are sure to be lurking just outside our door.
I think that we want to be led slightly astray when we’re being told a story. Just a little wrong footed.
You may very well ask what the goddess of love is doing in St. Andrews, writing trashy romances. Adapting.