The Ugliest Truth, In The End, Was

If I Had, Say, A Tall, Amateur Male Lead Living On The Campus Of A Rural College (six Years), The Next Book Might Feature A Short, Cop Who Lives In The Heart Of Manhattan (missing You).

We All Think That We Are Uniquely Complex, That No One Can See What We Are Thinking - Yet We Also Believe That We Have The Rare Ability To Read Others. This Fascinates Me At The Moment.

I Used To Wonder Why Lucy Liked Those Songs So Much. You Know What I Mean? She Sits In The Dark And Listens And Cries. Music Does That To Her...i Didn't Understand For A Long Time. But I Do Now. The Sad Songs Are A Safe Hurt. It's A Diversion. It's Controlled. And Maybe It Helps You Imagine That Real Pain Will Be Like That. But It's Not. Lucy Knows That, Of Course. You Can't Prepare For Real Pain. You Just Have To Let It Rip You Apart.

The Actual Writing Time Is A Lot Shorter Than The Thinking Time.

I've Never Chased The Dollar, I've Always Chased The Reader's Heart. I Love Having More Readers. The More People Who Read It, The More Thrilled I Am.