As always, the blessed relief of starting, a feeling that was like falling into a hole filled with bright light. As always, the glum knowledge that he would not write as well as he wanted to write. As always the terror of not being able to finish, of accelerating into a brick wall. As always, the marvelous joyful nervy feeling of journey begun.

Nora Roberts is cool.

Mister, we deal in lead.

And in real life endings aren't always neat, whether they're happy endings, or whether they're sad endings.

And suddenly it didn't seem to matter any more, nothing would matter if she could turn over, turn over and see the stars, turn over and look once and die.

Love isn't soft, like the poets say. Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close.

Are you sure self-pity is a luxury you can afford, Jack?