I Hate To Cook And Love To

I Have Learned How To Love. And It's A Terrible Thing. I'm Broken. My Heart Is Broken. Help Me.

When I Get To A Point In My Book Writing When I Don't Know What I'm Going To Do Next, I'll Come Back Look At Underlined Passages And See If The Images I Wrote Still Have A Certain Amount Of Resonance For Me.

He Was Weeping. Although 'weeping' Really Is To Small A Word For The Activity The Kind Had Undertaken. Tears Were Cascading From His Eyes. A Small Puddle Had Formed At His Feet. I Am Not Exaggerating. The King, It Seemed, Was Intent On Crying Himself A River.

So Many Miracles Have Not Yet Happened.

Writing Is Seeing. It Is Paying Attention.