Some Writers Pick A Topic

The Health Of The People I Love Is All That Really Matters In This World. Period.

Everyone Had A Forever.

I Think Part Of The Problem Sometimes Is That There's So Much Happening In My Books, To Whittle It Down Into A Single Script Is Hard.

Once, She'd Been A Pro At Decompressing, Loved To Sit On The Back Deck Of The Beach House In One Of Our Splintery Adirondack Chairs For Hours At A Time, Staring At The Ocean. She Never Had A Book Or The Paper Or Anything Else To Distract Her. Just The Horizon, But It Kept Her Attention, Her Gaze Unwavering. Maybe It Was The Absence Of Thought That She Loved About Being Out There, The World Narrowing To Just The Pounding Of The Waves As The Water Moved In And Out.

When He First Put His Arms Around Me, It Was Tentative, Like Maybe He Expected I'd Pull Away. When I Didn't, He Moved In Closer, His Hands Smoothing Over My Shoulders, And In My Mind I Saw Myself Retreating A Million Times When People Tried To Do This Same Thing: My Sister Or My Mother, Pulling Back And Into Myself, Tucking Everything Out Of Sight, Where Only I Knew Where To Find It. This Time, Though, I Gave In. I Let Wes Pull Me Against Him, Pressing My Head Against His Chest, Where I Could Feel His Heart Beating, Steady And True.