I am happiest sitting against a tree, with my notebook or sketchpad on my knee, capturing the moment.

Confront the page that taunts you with its whiteness. Face your enemy and fill it with words. You are bigger and stronger than a piece of paper.

When sitting down to write a letter, it always pays to calm one’s mood, collect one’s thoughts, and have a plan.

Putting pen to paper without first deciding the route and pace at which to scribe is like setting off on a bicycle without first checking the tyres.

I’m pretty sure I’m the only author who intends to take the longest possible route to a destination that will always be over the next hill.

I write into an old book that smells of dust and whose pages are floppy with damp. Sometimes the ink splodges onto the paper, other times it will barely leave the nib of my pen.

Rarely will I write indoors, even if it means getting wet during rain, or my hands numb in winter.

A pen that has clocked up a million words, a lifetime’s memories, is worth more than the centrepiece in a jeweller’s window.

If a pen can communicate our thoughts, dreams, and emotions and be the voice of our soul, then ink is the medium that carries the message.