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?

Books are a portable kind of time travel. We go back as well as forward when we read them. When we come back into the now, after being immersed in worlds previously unknown to us, we find ourselves, transformed. Touched by their magic, nothing we ever perceived beforehand remains quite the same.

Sir, I’ve known him ever since he was born! We’ve played snowball, and built snow-houses together, which are called igloos, and once, when one of Santa’s reindeer was sick on Christmas Eve, Snow Bear stepped in to help with the presents, and load them on the sleigh - he’s very kind, and clever, and strong, you know.

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.

Creativity is a flame that lights up and ignites the senses

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

Writing "Snugs the Snow Bear" was an exhilerating walk on a beach - I stopped now and then to study the rock pools, put my hand to my forehead, to gaze over the vast ocean, and the tide danced; played music at my feet, turned over precious shells and stones, returned them to me, polished. I picked one, held it to my ear. The tide rushed in, ran over my naked feet, and I was home.

Reading an author's Biography contributes to an understanding and enjoyment of their work, and gives a richness to the reading experience.

Writing which flows is more like play than work!

Writing is like scrambling up a hill on all fours; you arrive halfway up, and you are committed - you want to reach the summit, yet you must stop, to gather your strength and will. When you have climbed to the summit, you stop, catch your breath, and take in the vista. You wonder how you made it. Then, you make your decent, somewhat subdued, all the while planning your next ascent, your next attempt to touch the sky. The memory of your climb leaves you with one impression - the idea that it gets easier, over time.

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

His lone withdrawing figure blended anonymously with the darkness, Dr Raven's quick, light steps becoming gradually distant, drowned out by the clicking staccato rush of trains, the steady drip of rainwater, and the clock of a nearby church as it heralded the hour

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

The piper never knew we were watchers.....Sounds echoed - sounds of a Scottish love song. They echoed through the silence, soft and melancholy, as he kept time with his foot, and the metal of the bagpipes glinted, through faint moonshine, and lifting fog

The sun came out, warm on my back through my white school blouse.the streets were familiar, past the old tannery, the Jet garage. Past the Asian corner shop with rainbow jars of Kayli, gobstoppers and sherbert love hearts. I was in love with Frankie.

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.