Ice Is For Death And Endings.

As Many Have Noted, The Peril For Authors Is That Our Work Space Is Too Easily Our Play Space.

By Things So Achingly Small Are Lives Measured And Marred.

She Had Been A Solitary Child, And Then Solitary As A Woman, Drawn Into An Orbit Of Her Own That Took Her Away From Others, Even Those Who Would Be Her Friends.

Why Did Becoming Accustomed To Something Have To Render Its Pleasures Stale.

After A While, You Start To Realize That You Should Write A Book You Would Want To Read. I Try To Write A Book I Would Enjoy.