It Was Like That Part Of My

I Was Worn Out, Broken: He Had Taken Almost Everything. But He'd Been All I'd Had, All This Time. And When The Police Led Him Away, I Pulled Out Of The Hands Of All These Loved One, Sobbing, Screaming, Everything Hurting, To Try And Make Him Stay.

I Think Having A Good Agent Is Key. I've Been With Mine For Ten Years Now, And She's Very Honest With Me. There Are A Lot Of Times I've Sent Her Books That Were Not So Good Because I Was Tired Of Writing, Or Panicked About Money, And She's Told Me Flat Out, "you Don't Want This To Be Your Next Book. Trust Me."

Then I'd Crawl Back Into Bed, Smelling Her All Around Me, And Tell Myself That Next Time, I Would Lock That Window. But I Never Did.

If You Expect The Worst, You'll Never Be Disappointed.

When I Pictured Myself, It Was Always Like Just An Outline In A Colouring Book, With The Inside Not Yet Completed.