Grieving Doesn't Make You Imperfect. It Makes

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!

I Think Having A Good Agent Is Key. I've Been With Mine For Ten Years Now, And She's Very Honest With Me. There Are A Lot Of Times I've Sent Her Books That Were Not So Good Because I Was Tired Of Writing, Or Panicked About Money, And She's Told Me Flat Out, "you Don't Want This To Be Your Next Book. Trust Me."

This Thought Was Interrupted, Suddenly, By A Crash From The Front Entrance. We All Looked Over Just In Time To See Adam Bending Back From The Glass, Rubbing His Arm. "pull Open," Maggie Called Out. As Leah Rolled Her Eyes, She Said, "he Never Remembers. It's So Weird.

'i Don't Get It,' Caroline Said, Bemused. 'she's The Only One With Wings. Why Is That?'

Like A Blinking Cursor On An Empty Page, It Was Just The First Thing. The Beginning Of The Beginning. But At Least It Was Done.