I Was Tired Of Men. Hanging In

There Used To Be A Category Called Women's Fiction - Meaning Not Too Rude, Not Too Much Sex, A Bit Domestic And Internal. Women Have Changed So Much. We're So Varied. And We've Become More Interested In The Same Varied Experience In Fiction.

Writing Mirrors The Interior Self. You Know, Any Book Is Like The Perfect Blueprint Of The Psyche Of The Author.

If Sinners Where So Unhappy, Why Would They Prefer Their Suffering? But Now I Knew Why. Without My Wounds, Who Was I?

Find Someone Who Will Tremble For Your Touch, Someone Whose Fingers Are A Poem.

When Most People Looked At Josie Tyrell, They Only Saw A Certain Collection Of Bones, A Selection Of Forms Filling Space. But Michael Saw Past The Mouth And The Eyes, The Architecture Of The Body, Her Fleshly Masquerade. Other Boys Were Happy Enough To Enjoy The Show, They Just Wanted To Be Entertained In The Body's Shadow Theater. But Michael Had To Come Backstage. He Went Down Into The Mines, Into The Dark, And Brought Up The Gold, Your New Self, A Better Self. But What Good Was It If He Was Just Going To Leave Her Behind?