I Always Thought I Was

My Agent Is So Totally Honest, Which Is Just What Every Writer Needs. She Won't Let Me Sell A Crappy Book, Even If I Want To.

In Those First Few Hours Officially Single Again The World Seems Like It Expands, Suddenly Bigger And More Vast Now That You Have To Get Through It Alone.

But The Original Was There As Well—more Jaded And Rudimentary, Functional Rather Than Romantic. It Fit Not Just The Yellow House But Another Door, Deep Within My Own Heart. One That Had Been Locked So Tight For So Long That I Was Afraid To Even Try It For Fear Of What Might Be On The Other Side

It Was Just Perfect, Just Right All At Once.

The Basic Fact Is That No, This Isn't Ideal. Very Few Things Are. Sometimes, You Have To Manufacture Your Own History. Give Fate A Push,so To Speak.