It's hard for me to talk to her. All I can do when I look at her is think about the day when I won't be able to. So I spend all my time at school thinking about her, wishing I could see her right then, but when I get to her house, I don't know what to say.

It's easy to write something average or even something good. But writing well is quite challenging.

Who do you think it was that brought the bottle to her?

It's possible to go on, no matter how impossible it seems.

And then I feel as if I'm witnessing a miracle, as ever so slowly she raises her face towards the moon. I watch her drink in the sight, sensing the flood of memories she's unleashed and wanting nothing more than to let her know I'm here. But instead I stay where I am and stare up at the moon as well. And for the briefest instant, it almost feels like we're together again.

There are no authors in my genre. No one is doing what I do.

Because publishing is becoming more business-oriented each day with more examination of the bottom line, it's harder to break out than ever.