If I Could Write The Perfect Novella

And Now She Was Back In The World, Not One She Could Make, But The One That Had Made Her, And She Felt Herself Shrinking Under The Early Evening Sky. She Was Weary Of Being Outdoors, But She Was Not Ready To Go In. Was That Really All There Was In Life, Indoors Or Out? Wasn't There Somewhere Else For People To Go?

When They Kissed She Immediately Felt His Tongue, Tensed And Strong, Pushing Past Her Teeth, Like Some Bully Shouldering His Way Into A Room. Entering Her.

No One Knew About The Squirrel’s Skull Beneath Briony Bed, But No One Wanted To Know.

Scientists Do Stand On The Shoulders Of Giants, Just As Do Writers. Conversely, In The Arts We Do Make Discoveries. We Do Refine Our Tools. So I Am Arguing With, Or At Least Playing With, The Idea That Art Never Improves.

I Did Not Kill My Father, But I Sometimes Felt I Had Helped Him On His Way. And But For The Fact That It Coincided With A Landmark In My Own Physical Growth, His Death Seemed Insignificant Compared To What Followed.