My Book Group Has One Rule: No

She Still Had Her Bad Days, No Question, When The Black Dog Of Depression Sniffed Her Out And Settled Its Crushing Weight On Her Chest And Breathed Its Pungent Dog Breath In Her Face. On Those Days She Called In Sick To The It Shop Where, Most Days, She Untangled Tangled Networks For A Song. On Those Days She Pulled Down The Shades And Ran Dark For Twelve Or Twenty-four Or Seventy-two Hours, However Long It Took For The Black Dog To Go On Home To Its Dark Master.

I Studied The Cello For A Long Time, From When I Was Little Up Through College.

More Than Fantasy Or Even Science Fiction, Ray Bradbury Wrote Horror, And Like So Many Great Horror Writers He Was Himself Utterly Without Fear, Of Anything. He Wasn't Afraid Of Looking Uncool - He Wasn't Scared To Openly Love Innocence, Or To Be Optimistic, Or To Write Sentimentally When He Felt That Way.

That Was The Thing About The World: It Wasn't That Things Were Harder Than You Thought They Were Going To Be, It Was That They Were Hard In Ways That You Didn't Expect.

I Have Spent Many, Many Hours Reading J.k. Rowling's Work. I Am A Known 'harry Potter' Fan.