I still get awful depression. It's who I am.
Failed relationships can be described as so much wasted make-up.
Do I mind being called a chick-lit writer? Well, it's not the worst thing that could happen.
My mother is the best storyteller. And her mother was too.
I sighed. "What is life but fleeting moments of happiness strung together on necklace of despair?
They say the path of true love never runs smooth. Well, Luke and my true love's path didn't run at all, it limped along in new boots that were chafing its heels. Blistered and cut, red and raw, every hopping, lopsided step, a little slice of agony.