It's Not A Date. I Bought My

No Mother. Two Small Words, And Yet Within Them Lay A Bottomless Well Of Pain And Loss, A Ceaseless Mourning For Touches That Were Never Received And Words Of Wisdom That Were Never Spoken. No Single Word Was Big Enough To Adequately Describe The Loss Of Your Mother.

Sitting Around And Waiting For Your Muse Is Not The Best Choice.

A Romance Novel Focuses Exclusively On Two People Falling In Love. It Can't Be About A Woman Caring For Her Aging Mother Or Something Like That. It Can Have That Element, But It Has To Be Primarily About The Male-female Relationship.

He Was Afraid That The Secrets She'd Kept Would Always Be Here, Inside Him, An Ugly Malignant Thing Lodged Near Enough To His Heart To Upset Its Rhythm, And Though It Could Be Removed, Cut Out, There Would Always Be Scars; Bits And Pieces Of It Would Remain In His Blood, Making It Wrong Somehow, So That If He Accidentally Sliced His Skin Open, His Blood Would--for One Heartbeat--flow As Black As India Ink Before It Remembered That It Should Be Red.

Thoughts - Even Fears - Were Airy Things, Formless Until You Made Them Solid With Your Voice And Once Given That Weight, They Could Crush You.