Grieving Doesn't Make You Imperfect. It Makes

Suddenly, I Was Just Sure He Was Going To Kiss Me. He Was There, I Could Feel His Breath, The Ground Solid Beneath Us. But Then Something Crossed His Face, A Thought, A Hesitation, And He Shifted Slightly. Not Now. Not Yet. It Was Something I'd Done So Often - Weighing What I Could Afford To Risk, Right At That Moment - That I Recognized It Instantly. It Was Like Looking In A Mirror.

This Is The Problem With Dealing With Someone Who Is Actually A Good Listener. They Don’t Jump In On Your Sentences, Saving You From Actually Finishing Them, Or Talk Over You, Allowing What You Do Manage To Get Out To Be Lost Or Altered In Transit. Instead, They Wait, So You Have To Keep Going.

I Think My Biggest Problem, Though, At Least In Drafts, Is Not Repeating Myself. After Eight Books I Get Worried That A Character Or Piece Of Dialog Might Be Too Much Like Something I've Already Done. So It's A Challenge To Keep It Fresh.

If You Didn't Love Him, This Never Would Have Happened. But You Did. And Accepting That Love And Everything That Followed It Is Part Of Letting It Go.

So He Didn't Have To Prove How He Felt About Me. Like So Much Else, I Should Just Know.