Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.
Jealously was an unjust and stifling thing.
Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.
What is writing but an expression of my own life?
Adam Larey gazed with hard and wondering eyes down the silent current of the red river upon which he meant to drift away into the desert
Where I was raised a woman's word was law. I ain't quite outgrowed that yet.