And For One Second, It Was Like

Watching Him, I Thought, Not For The First Time That Night, That Maybe It Should Have Felt Strange To Be With Him, Here, Now. And Yet It Didn’t, At All. That Was One Of The Things About The Night. Stuff That Would Be Weird In The Bright Light Of Day Just Wasn’t So Much Once You Passed A Certain Hour. It Was Like The Dark Just Evened It All Out Somehow.

I Think Part Of The Problem Sometimes Is That There's So Much Happening In My Books, To Whittle It Down Into A Single Script Is Hard.

I Think My Biggest Problem, Though, At Least In Drafts, Is Not Repeating Myself. After Eight Books I Get Worried That A Character Or Piece Of Dialog Might Be Too Much Like Something I've Already Done. So It's A Challenge To Keep It Fresh.

It's So Easy To Get Caught Up In What People Expect Of You. Sometimes, You Can Just Lose Yourself.

That Was The Hard Thing About Grief, And The Grieving. They Spoke Another Language, And The Words We Knew Always Fell Short Of What We Wanted Them To Say.