Probably not needing to be published would give me more time to think about a book.

It was a long time ago now. And it was yesterday.

In the end, it is my belief, words are the only things that can construct a world that makes sense.

As I watch, the sky fills with clouds of snow feathers from every kind of bird there ever was and even some that only exist in the imagination, like the bluebirds that fly over the rainbow.

What if we had a chance to do it again and again, until we finally did get it right? Wouldn't that be wonderful?

Not being published would be great. When I say that to other writers they look at me as if I'm totally insane.

Oh, God. What was happening to her, she was turning into a normal person.