People Get Mad Annabel. Its Not The

Who Says There Has To Be A Point?" He Asked. "or A Reason. Maybe It's Just Something You Have To Do.

I Think My Biggest Problem, Though, At Least In Drafts, Is Not Repeating Myself. After Eight Books I Get Worried That A Character Or Piece Of Dialog Might Be Too Much Like Something I've Already Done. So It's A Challenge To Keep It Fresh.

With My Mom, When Someone Was Gone, They Were Gone. She Didn't Waste Another Minute Thinking About Them, And Neither Should You.

I Wasn't Sure What I Expected Her To Do Or Say To This. It Was All New To Me From That Second On. But Clearly, She'd Been There Before. It Was Obvious In The Easy Way She Shrugged Off Her Bag, Letting It Fall With A Thump Onto The Sand, Before Sitting Down Beside Me. She Didn't Pull Me Close For A Big Bonding Hug Or Offer Up Some Saccharine Words Of Comfort, Both Of Which Would Have Sent Me Running For Sure. Instead She Gave Me Nothing But Her Company, Realizing Even Before I Did This That This, In Fact, Was Just What I Needed.

He Was Looking At Me, Jsut As I'd Thought He Would Be, But Like Bert's, His Light Was Not What I Expected. No Pity, No Sadness: Nothing Had Changed. I Realized All The Times I'd Felt People Stare At Me, Their Faces Had Been Pictures, Abstracts. None Of Them Were Mirrors, Able To Reflect Back The Expression I Thought One I Wore, The Feelings Only I Felt.