What are we but our stories?

In my office in Florida I have, I think, 30 manuscript piles around the room. Some are screenplays or comic books or graphic novels. Some are almost done. Some I'm rewriting. If I'm working with a co-writer, they'll usually write the first draft. And then I write subsequent drafts.

Yes!” said Fang, punching the air. “Freaks rule.

Because what’s worse than knowing you want something, besides knowing you can never have it?

Fang looked at the newest bird kid. Dylan was an inch or two taller than he was, and somewhat heavier built, though he still had the long, lean look of a human-avian hybrid-you couldn't make bricks fly.

They call me, The Sharkalator

Sighing, she gave a brief nod. “I was supposed to win. I was supposed to finish you off. They never counted on you winning. And then you didn’t kill me. It was awful.” “You’re welcome,” I said, feeling fresh anger ignite. “I’ll try not to humiliate you by letting you live next time.” (Max II to Max)