Funny How A Beautiful Song

And I Felt A Sudden Whirl In My Head, Knowing This Leap Was Inevitable, That I Wasn't Just Standing On The Cliff, Toes Poking Over, But Already In Mid-air.

No," I Snapped. "i Mean, No. I'm Answering. I'm Just Collecting My Response." Another Few Seconds Passed. Is There A Time Limit For This?" He Asked. I Shot Him A Look. "just Wondering.

Usually When I Finish The Draft Of A Book, I'm Sure I'll Never Write Another One. I'm Just That Tired And Sick Of Myself. But Then Another Idea Starts Percolating. It Usually Begins With The Narrator's Name, Then Some Idea That Intrigues Me About Her Life Or Situation. I Try To Ignore It As Long As I Can, Because I Know When I Start Writing, I'll Be Right Back Into It, Every Single Day. But Eventually, I Just Have To. It's A Compulsion!

And So We Stood There In The Kitchen, My Mother And I, Facing Off Over Everything That Had Built Up Since June, When I Was Willing To Hand Myself Over Free And Clear. Now I Needed Her To Return It All To Me, With The Faith That I Could Make My Own Way.

Some Things Are Meant To Be Broken. Imperfect. Chaotic.