A happy childhood can fortify one against the ravages of life, and part of that happiness is found in books, which become our constant companions for the rest of our lives.
How insightful of Finland to devise a topic-based curriculum in their schools! This means that dicreet “subjects” that are taught may cross-fertilise each other, and the possibilities in this are amazing!
I thought I would write a love letter. But then, I wrote a book.” – Suzy Davies, on “Johari’s Window
Dreams, kindled in the fire of imagination,ignite in the brilliance of our minds,and are wrought in the work of our hands” –
Whose ideas breathe through me? Am I a thief? Do I dream my own dreams?
The Art of Writing for Children is the knowledge of what is significant to them
The sea is rushing in now as unconsciousness does.I can see a chord, hear gospel songs as we hoist the sails.The sails are a soft white bird. We are airborne. We are primitive.
When first I set eyes on The Isle of Wight Polar Bear, my world was filled, in that instant, with the magic and wonder of childhood – Suzy Davies, Author, “Snugs The Snow Bear
Reading an author’s Biography contributes to an understanding and enjoyment of their work, and gives a richness to the reading experience.
It is winter, and very cold. There are icicles against the glass, and frost. I am tracing a pattern, before it melts. Before it fades, and is lost for good, like memories
I want to sling a stone, a small rock into a pool, see it ripple. I want to shake a tree, create a small storm..
The landscape is bathed in the honeyed light of morning. Sometimes the memory of winter comes again. And my days are colored reveries of you, my nights sensuous
On his departure, he glanced swiftly back as he passed the furtive gaze of the gloved footmen.He was swept away in the momentum of shimmering glass….I had seen how the world turned, and I was beginning to feel my own power
I was an unwilling passenger leaving the Big Country. I would miss the mountains and the waterfalls,the treks on broad horses’ backs to hidden villages in secret valleys.
Writing is…creating tattoos which are invisible, under your skin
Our eyes met. I kissed her soft face, and down the stairs they descended. Their voices blended into an echo, a murmur. I ventured barefoot into the bedroom. The dark gown lay crumpled upon the bed
There were women who navigated in canoes, holding their children, the beguiling wind blowing soft sleet kisses, raining upon their skins
She hands me an ornament of The Virgin Mary. “Pray to the Holy Mary, Mother of God!” I notice she has a gold chain round her neck. It has the holy cross and a shamrock
I was climbing high, high up Pen Dinas Head among the sparkling yellow gorse, sea birds and white heather, with the oily sheep huddled together against the wind
There are bald patches, like Daddy’s head, on the pebble-dash, higher up than last year. I have picked off the stones. (I was a graffiti artist. No words, no pictures. The trace of identity marked in spaces.
Oh my boy, you are so huggable and snuggable, is that why they callyou Snugs Bear?”“I’ve simply always been Snugs,” Snugs said, with an unusual, mysterious air, for it was nearly time to go to bed.
The song was a sea-shanty, and Snugs loved that kind of song. The music had an accordion, and the tune reminded him of the ship, and the songs Captain LightOwler played, when he was off duty, about pirates and the baddies on the sea.
He was just about to turn the light off, when there was a heavy, “Tappety, tap, tappety, tap,” on the door. It was the kind of loud sound that could only be made with a hoof. A moose’s hoof, that is.” – Snugs The Snow Bear
I can see the caravanserai, like a mirage in the distance. The heat hums. I thought I saw water. What would you have on these trade winds for your comfort?
It was back home that The Northern Lights cast these wondrous rainbows in the snow, and where Snugs used to play tag with the huge curtain of shining light that ran, even faster than the wind, across the vast snow-covered landscape.