Read Like A Butterfly, Write Like A

What I Couldn't Help Noticing Was That I Learned More About The Novel In A Morning By Trying To Write A Page Of One Than I'd Learned In Seven Years Or So Of Trying To Write Criticism

On A Cold, Fretful Afternoon In Early October, 1872, A Hansom Cab Drew Up Outside The Offices Of Lockhart And Selby, Shipping Agents, In The Financial Heart Of London, And A Young Girl Got Out And Paid The Driver. She Was A Person Of Sixteen Or So--alone, And Uncommonly Pretty. She Was Slender And Pale, And Dressed In Mourning, With A Black Bonnet Under Which She Tucked Back A Straying Twist Of Blond Hair That The Wind Had Teased Loose. She Had Unusually Dark Brown Eyes For One So Fair. Her Name Was Sally Lockhart; And Within Fifteen Minutes, She Was Going To Kill A Man.

Human Beings Can't See Anything Without Wanting To Destroy It. That's Original Sin. And I'm Going To Destroy It. Death Is Going To Die.

The Sight Filled The Northern Sky; The Immensity Of It Was Scarcely Conceivable. As If From Heaven Itself, Great Curtains Of Delicate Light Hung And Trembled. Pale Green And Rose-pink, And As Transparent As The Most Fragile Fabric, And At The Bottom Edge A Profound Fiery Crimson Like The Fires Of Hell, They Swung And Shimmered Loosely With More Grace Than The Most Skillful Dancer.

Just Finished 'secrecy' - Truly Enthralling Both As A Love Story And As A Tale Of Suspense - But Much More Than Both.