The World Was A World Of Dreaming

Here She Was, A Women Who Could Bolt-load A Crossbow In Under A Second, Put Half A Dozen Long Arrows In The Air In Fewer Than Five, Blade A Target Dead Through The Sweet Spot At Six Meters, On The Run, On An Off Day; And Yet Knitting A Pair Of Baby Booties Seemed Completely Beyond Her Power.

Behind Every Writer Stands A Very Large Bookshelf.

A Thousand Recollected Lives Were Passing Through Her, A Thousand Stories - Of Love And Work, Of Parents And Children, Of Duty And Joy And Grief. Beds Slept In And Meals Eaten, And The Bliss And Pain Of The Body, And A View Of Summer Leaves From A Window On A Morning It Had Rained; The Nights Of Loneliness And The Nights Of Love, The Soul In It's Body Keeping Always Longing To Be Known.

There's An Outline For Each Of The Books That I Adhere To Pretty Closely, But I'm Not Averse To Taking It In A New Direction, As Long As I Can Get It Back To Where I Need It To Go.

Sara Waited A Respectful Time, Knowing There Was Nothing She Could Do To Ease The Woman's Pain. Grief Was A Place, Sara Understood, Where A Person Went Alone. It Was Like A Room Without Doors, And What Happened In That Room, All The Anger And The Pain You Felt, Was Meant To Stay There, Nobody's Business But Yours.