She No Longer Believed In Talk. It

It's Hard, Because When You Talk About Process Or Your Characters Ruling Your Narrative, It Sounds Like You Have No Control, But Obviously You're Ultimately The Author, So You Do Have Control.

I Stared At Her Black Hair. It Was Shiny Like The Promises In Magazines.

Each Time I Told My Story, I Lost A Bit, The Smallest Drop Of Pain.

I Was Trying To Prove To Them And To Myself That I Was Still Who I Had Always Been. I Was Beautiful, If Fat. I Was Smart, If Loud. I Was Good, If Ruined.

She Didn't Even Have To Smile, And She Rarely Did Outside Her House--it Was The Eyes, Her Dancer's Carriage, The Way She Seemed To Deliberate Over The Smallest Movement Of Her Body.