Love Makes Saints Or Sinners Out Of

She Gazed Toward The Marsh That Grew Thicker, Deeper, Greener With Approaching Summer. Mosquitoes Whined In There, Breeding In The Dark Water. Alligators Slid Through It, Silent Death. It Was A Place Where Snakes Could Slither And Bogs Could Suck The Shoe Right Off Your Foot. And It Was A Place, She Thought, That Went Bright And Beautiful With The Twinkling Of Fireflies, Where Wildflowers Thrived In The Shade And The Stingy Light. Where An Eagle Could Soar Like A King. There Was No Beauty Without Risk. No Life Without It.

I Said, You're The Beat Of My Heart, The Breath In My Body, The Light In My Soul.

In The Summer Of 80, Silhouette Bought My First Book.

My Fondest Wish, I Suppose, Would Be To Die At The Keyboard Right After Finishing A Book, Perhaps With A Little Time Off To Have Some Really Good Sex. It's Not, 'oh, Thank God, This Is Book No. 250. I Can Die Now.'

I Didn't Get Fired." "you Didn't Punch Your Boss And Get Fired From The Tribune? That's What I Heard." "i Punched What Could Loosely Be Called A Colleague For Cribbing My Notes On A Story And Since The Editor–who Happened To Be The Asshole's Uncle–took His Word Over Mine, I Quit." "to Write Books. Is It Fun?" "i Guess It Is." "i Bet You Killed The Asshole In The First One You Wrote." "you'd Be Right. Beat Him To Death With A Shovel. Very Satisfying.