“ Honesty can be a dirty gift. It can muddy a sparkling stream of memories. ”
He put his hand on his forehead and scoured the French department of his memory for a word. He knew it was in there. He'd put it in almost fifty years before and hadn't had cause to remove it. But for the life of him he couldn't find it.
~ Colin Cotterill
It takes it out of you, writing with heart. And it was just for me really. Sort of a confirmation to myself that my inner diva can still make love to the keyboard when she’s in the mood. I have to keep her roped and gagged when I’m writing for the newspapers. They don’t like her at all. They don’t want love. They want a quick tryst in a motel room that’s forgotten in a few hours.
There was nothing fake or added about him. He was all himself.
A hero without faults is like an omelet without little bits of eggshell in it.
