My first memories belong to the surreal landscape of childhood. Cushioned in tenderness, they flicker a blurred reel of mango trees, mud pies and mosquito screens. Occasionally, through the fuzz, concrete moments come into focus. For me, the first of those is the imprint of a rainy afternoon in a library. Inside this memory, I …
No matter how fluffy the bathrobe or late the check-out the one drawcard that never fails to entice the final digit of my CVC is a hotel with books.
If you type ‘Do writers have spirit animals?’ into Google the first two words will lead one into predictable territory
I’m neither the first writer to think about dreams nor the first thinker to write about them but access is critical to creativity.