He said my name the way diabetics talked about hot fudge sundaes.

I trudged around on the muddy river bottom for half an hour, patiently waiting to drown, before giving up and slogging my way back to shore.

Wow, girlfriend, you're incompatible with life! And here I thought I was just incompatible with pink.

I've always assumed he'd be around to be, you know, yelled at and taken for granted. And of course I was wrong. Nobody's going to put up with that forever.

They weren't moving. Perhaps I was dazzling then with my ineptitude. It had happened before.

I've got a folder full of rejection slips that I keep. Know why? Because those same editors are now calling my agent hoping I'll write a book or novella for them. Things change. A rejection slip today might mean a frantic call to your agent in six months.

Why is it suddenly uncool to spell? That's all I want to know.