I Was Bored. Sad. Lonely. It Was

Writing A Novel Is Like Childbirth: Once You Realize How Awful It Really Is, You Never Want To Do It Again.

Events Conspired To Bring You Back To Where You'd Been. It Was What You Did Then That Made All The Difference: It Was All About Potential.

I Just Can't Ever Be A Free Spirit And Just Relax. When It Comes To Work, This Is Good. I'm Very Disciplined, Which With Writing Is Often Half The Battle, Or More. But It Also Means That If I Want To, Say, Play Hooky And Chocolate And Watch Bravo All Afternoon, I Feel Horribly Guilty. I Wish I Could Find A Nice Balance.

I Was Tired Of Hanging On, Taking The Torn Pieces To Make Something Whole With Them.

I Wondered If Emotions Were Like Menstrual Cycles, If You Get Enough Women Together. Give It Time, And Everyone Was Crying.