She wore white heirloom lace about her throat And in her hair a bright golden feather A pearl like a plum hung ripe from her neck But her smile fetched ten gold together

Writing a first draft and reminding myself that I'm simply shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.

... fantasy is not practice for what is real—fantasy is the opiate of women.

Ani told them all...telling more than needed telling, the stories clarifying and unifying themselves in her mind as she let them spill out of her mouth.

Just like the old adage--what you dislike most in other people is what you dislike the most in yourself--

She wore white heirloom lace about her throat And in her hair a bright golden feather A pearl like a plum hung ripe from her neck But her smile fetched ten gold together

I know they are naught things, but I devour novels.” (p. 57).