Today something interesting happened. I died.
The past is history. The future is a mystery. The present is a gift.
Alafair Burke is one of the finest young crime writers working today.
I loved him so much. It didn't change all the reasons we couldn't be together, but it kept me returning to his body, kept my skin seeking his skin over and over again in the sad dance we did.
The woman I was seems hopelessly naive. I envy her.
I definitely feel that plot flows from character. I dont believe that you can construct a plot and insert people into it.