It's never perfect when I write it down the first time, or the second time, or the fifth time. But it always gets better as I go over it and over it.

It is the last thing we learn, / listening to the creature world.

You write to be read. That is the bottom line.

But as the scissors snip-snapped through her hair and the razor shaved the rest, she realized with a sudden awful panic that she could no longer recall anything from the past. I cannot remember, she whispered to herself. I cannot remember. She's been shorn of memory as brutally as she'd been shorn of her hair, without permission, without reason... Gone, all gone, she thought again wildly, no longer even sure what was gone, what she was mourning.

Language helps develp life as surely as it reflects life. It is a most important part of our human condition.

Love the writing, love the writing, love the writing... the rest will follow.

You can only chase a butterfly for so long.