Writing Is A Job: You Must Show

I Think Many Years Ago I Got On A Bus In L.a. And Drove Around To See The Stars' Homes, But That's The Extent Of My Direct Experience In Hollywood.

Sara Waited A Respectful Time, Knowing There Was Nothing She Could Do To Ease The Woman's Pain. Grief Was A Place, Sara Understood, Where A Person Went Alone. It Was Like A Room Without Doors, And What Happened In That Room, All The Anger And The Pain You Felt, Was Meant To Stay There, Nobody's Business But Yours.

In Her Mind's Eye She Saw It, Saw It All At Last: The Rolling Armies And The Flames Of Battle; The Graves And Pits And Dying Cries Of A Hundred Million Souls; The Spreading Darkness, Like A Black Wing Stretching Over The Earth; The Last, Bitter Hours Of Cruelty And Sorrow, And The Terrible, Final Flights; Death's Great Dominion Over All, And, At The Last, Empty Cities, Becalmed By The Silence Of A Hundred Years. Already These Things Were Coming To Pass.

She Remembered No One At All. She Remembered One Day Thinking: I Am Alone. There Is No I But I. She Lived In The Dark. She Taught Herself To Walk In The Light, Though It Was Not Easy.

There's An Outline For Each Of The Books That I Adhere To Pretty Closely, But I'm Not Averse To Taking It In A New Direction, As Long As I Can Get It Back To Where I Need It To Go.