Like A Blinking Cursor On An Empty

Everything, In The End, Comes Down To Timing. One Second, One Minute, One Hour Could Make All The Difference.

How Fast Were You?" Wes Asked Me. I Said, "not That Fast." "you Mean You Couldn't... Fly?" He Said, Smiling At Me.

With My Mom, When Someone Was Gone, They Were Gone. She Didn't Waste Another Minute Thinking About Them, And Neither Should You.

I Eased Back On My Elbows, Tilting My Head Back To Look Up At The Sky, Which Was Pinkish, Streaked With Red. This Was The Time We Knew Best, That Stretch Of Day Going From Dusk To Dark. It Seemed Like We Were Always Waiting For Nighttime Here. I Could Feel The Trampoline Easing Up And Down, Moved By Our Own Breathing, Bringing Us In Small Increments Up And Back From The Sky As The Colors Faded, Slowly, And The Stars Began To Show Themselves.

Usually When I Finish The Draft Of A Book, I'm Sure I'll Never Write Another One. I'm Just That Tired And Sick Of Myself. But Then Another Idea Starts Percolating. It Usually Begins With The Narrator's Name, Then Some Idea That Intrigues Me About Her Life Or Situation. I Try To Ignore It As Long As I Can, Because I Know When I Start Writing, I'll Be Right Back Into It, Every Single Day. But Eventually, I Just Have To. It's A Compulsion!