I Sound Contemptuous, But I Am Not.

The Stretch Of Years Leaves None Unmarked: The Blissful Sense Of Youthful Invincibility Peels Away And Responsibility Brings Its Weight To Bear.

Had Any Poet Adequately Described The Wretched Ugliness Of A Loved One Turned Inside Out With Grief?

I Love The Structural Part Of The Writing Process.

Hope, How She Had Grown To Hate The Word. It Was An Insideious Seed Planted Inside A Person's Soul, Surviving Covertly On Little Tending, Then Flowering So Spectacularly That None Could Help But Cherish It.

No Two People Will Ever See Or Feel Things In The Same Way, Merry. The Challenge Is To Be Truthful When You Write. Don't Approximate. Don't Settle For The Easiest Combination Of Words. Go Searching Instead For Those That Explain Exactly What You Think. What You Feel.