When did I stop being me?
Honey, I plan to marry you the moment the ink is dry on that death certificate.
I don't like outlining, because books are organic things. Sometimes a book doesn't want to be written in a certain way.
I strain to hear, but my old ears, for all their obscene hugeness, pick up nothing but snippets.
You work hard on a book and throw it out there and then it's beyond your control.
I just can't. I'm married. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.