Short On Money, Long On Hope

Norah Watched Him, Serious And Utterly Absorbed In His Task, Overcome By The Simple Fact Of His Existence.

This Was Her Life. Not The Life She Had Once Dreamed Of, Not A Life Her Younger Self Would Ever Have Imagined Or Desired, But The Life She Was Living, With All Its Complexities. This Was Her Life, Built With Care And Attention, And It Was Good.

Away From The Bright Motion Of The Party, She Carried Her Sadness Like A Dark Stone Clenched In Her Palm.

...and The Distance Between Them, Millimeters Only, The Space Of A Breath, Opened Up And Deepened, Became A Cavern At Whose Edge He Stood.

Writing Is Always A Process Of Discovery—i Never Know The End, Or Even The Events On The Next Page, Until They Happen. There’s A Constant Interplay Between The Imagining And Shaping Of The Story.