All True Readers Have A Book, A

A Twinge At The Edge Of Her Lips And She Continued, The Soft, Slow Lilt Of Recitation: "ancient Walls That Sing The Distant Hours.

I Love The Structural Part Of The Writing Process.

She Felt Like A Fictional Character Who'd Escaped The Book In Which Her Creator Had Carefully And Kindly Trapped Her, Taken A Pair Of Scissors To Her Outline And Leaped, Free.

I Write What I'd Like To Read And Just Hope That, Along The Way, Others Might Like To Read Them, Too.

So Much In Life Came Down To Timing.