Books Are The Air I Breathe, So

I'm Really Not One Of These Procrastinators Who Cleans The House In Order To Put Off Writing, But Life Gets In The Way.

Vitamins Are Medicine For Not Getting Sick And Going Back To Heaven Yet.

Writing Is Nearly Always A Matter Of Finding Whatever Your Brain Needs To Trick It Into Being Creative, And In My Case, A Tiny Little Bit Of Fact Just Seems To Work.

I Found Motherhood A Crash Course In Existentialism (what Is My Purpose In Life, Am I Mistress Or Slave Of My Destiny, When The Hell Do I Get Some Sleep?) And [the Book] Room Was The Result.

At The Door, There Was One Of Those Moment When Two People Realize That They Like Each Other More Than They Know Each Other. This Is Nicer Than The Opposite Situation, But More Awkward. You Try To Remember The Protocol For Touching. You Hate To Gush, Or Presume To Much, Yet You Are Unwilling To Let The Moment Pass Without Without Some Gesture