I used to want to be a writer. I used to get excited about poetry, new books. I used to write in class, just for the joy of throwing words around. what happened? did I get sidetracked by journalism, which siphoned off the pleasure of writing - which I still enjoy - without satisfying my need to make things up, to play?

my hand against the wall of the pool, wet in the sunlight.

of a woman: "she stood out like a colour figure in a black and white photograph".

gabriel garcia marquez says you should never show anyone a rough draft.

reading the news of your life on a newspaper poster

from a dream: the "whip dress" - black, with a balloon of transparent tulle around it.

some thoughts you can't even put into an anonymous diary, can't even write down then burn.

there are so many books not on the Web. the missing part of the project, I think, even if Amazon are trying.

Vic. market: the pink kombi van, driven by the classically handsome longhaired blond surfer. I thought they'd died out!