My parents were dancers, and we traveled around a lot, so I went to some very ropy schools where I learned a lot about being bullied and not a great deal about anything else.
What I like about vampires is what I like about everything I want to write about, the depths and heights, the pain and joy. Life.
I submitted manuscripts to publishers. This was not so much a feeling that I should be published as a wish to escape the feared and hated drudgery of normal work.
People are always the start for me... animals, when I can get into their heads, gods, supernatural beings, immortals, the dead... these are all people to me.
We need the expressive arts, the ancient scribes, the storytellers, the priests.
I'm a devotee of Dracula, which was a pathfinder in horror and vampire fiction.
I haven't deteriorated or gone insane. Suddenly, I just can't get anything into print. And apparently I'm not alone in this. There are people of very high standing, authors who are having problems. So I have been told.
Writers tell stories better, because they've had more practice, but everyone has a book in them. Yes, that old cliche.
When I started as a writer, I knew nothing about publishing-nothing about anything!
An editor suggested to me I might try contemporary horror. At first this didn't appeal-then the idea arrived.
The bitterness of joy lies in the knowledge that is cannot last. Nor should joy last beyond a certain season, for, after that season, even joy would become merely habit.
A rose by any other nameWould get the blameFor being what it is--The colour of a kiss,The shadow of a flame.A rose may earn another name,So call it love;So call it love I will,And love is like the sea,Which changes constantly,And yet is stillThe same.
I hate the way, once you start to know someone, care about them, their behavior can distress you, even when it's unreasonable and not your fault, even if you were really trying to be careful, tactful.
I held out my book. It was precious to me, as were all the things I'd written; even where I despised their inadequacy there was not one I would disown. Each tore its way from my entrails. Each had shortened my life, killed me with its own special little death.
I'm not very good at being alive. Sometimes I despair of ever mastering it, getting it right. When I'm old, perhaps.