The Way To Write A Book Is

Cats, I Always Think, Only Jump Into Your Lap To Check If You Are Cold Enough, Yet, To Eat.

There Are Little Thoughts In Your Head That Can Grow Until They Eat Your Entire Mind. Just Tiny Little Thoughts--they Are Like A Cancer, There Is No Telling What Triggers The Spread, Or Who Will Be Struck, And Why Some Get It And Others Are Spared.

I'm Starting To Think My Narrators' Sentences Are Getting Too Big For Them, And They Are Getting To Sound A Bit Samey And, More Disturbingly, A Bit Too Much Like Me.

Writing Is Not My Problem, It Is My Solution.

Belief Needs Something Terrible To Make It Work, I Find--blood, Nails, A Bit Of Anguish.