I used to be a pre-industrial writer: thousands of words in a spurt and then a few days off. But as I get older, I've switched to a mode best described as 'slow and steady wins the race.' Basically, I write during the same four hours every day, after breakfast and the all-important coffee, generally in the same room and wearing the same pajamas.

Which was worse: a friend with brain damage, or one who despised you?

But you know what? It's not my behavior I'm worried about anymore. It's yours.

And it was pretty clear that no prince was showing up, or at least that he was really late.

What did a happy ending even mean in real life, anyway? In stories you simply said, 'They lived happily ever after,' and that was it. But in real life people had to keep on living, day after day, year after year.

She smiled, turning toward Alek. "You don't know what a friend you have in Dylan.

A rat called Possible New Strain was sitting under a spaghetti strainer held down with a pile of journalism textbooks, saying rude things in rat-speak.