I Took The Volume To A Table,

Aquamarines Grew With Emeralds, Claire Told Me. But Emeralds Were Fragile And Always Broke Into Smaller Pieces, While Aquamarines Were Stronger, Grew In Huge Crystals Without Any Trouble, So They Weren't Worth As Much. It Was The Emerald That Didn't Break That Was The Really Valuable Thing.

My House Is Modern, But I Like My Writing Room To Be Old Fashioned. I Write On A Little Wooden Secretary Desk.

They Dream Of Men With Gentle Hands, Eloquent With Tenderness, Fingers That Brushed Along A Cheek, That Outlined Open Lips In The Lovers' Braille. Hands That Sculpted Sweetness From Sullen Flesh, That Traced Breast And Ignited Hips, Opening, Kneading. Flesh Becomes Bread In The Heat Of Those Hands, Braided And Rising.

The Writer Is Both A Sadist And A Masochist. We Create People We Love, And Then We Torture Them. The More We Love Them, And The More Cleverly We Torture Them Along The Lines Of Their Greatest Vulnerability And Fear, The Better The Story. Sometimes We Try To Protect Them From Getting Booboos That Are Too Big. Don’t. This Is Your Protagonist, Not Your Kid.

Without My Wounds, Who Was I? My Scars Were My Face, My Past Was My Life.