Was It Really This Easy, Once You

Writing A Novel Is Like Childbirth: Once You Realize How Awful It Really Is, You Never Want To Do It Again.

Call It Crazy, Or Just Chicken Salad.

Like A Blinking Cursor On An Empty Page, It Was Just The First Thing. The Beginning Of The Beginning. But At Least It Was Done.

It Passed, Though. That Was The Bad Thing. It Always Passed.

Holding People Away From You, And Denying Yourself Love, That Doesn't Make You Strong. If Anything, It Makes You Weaker. Because You're Doing It Out Of Fear.