The Truth Is I Hate

It's Funny How, Even Long After You've Accepted The Grief Of Losing Someone You Love And Truly Have Gotten On With Your Life, Every Once In A While Something Comes Up That Plays "gotcha," And For A Moment Or Two The Scar Tissue Separates And The Wound Is Raw Again.

Live Your Life As If You May Lose Everything.

Approach Your Lives As If They Were Novels, With Their Own Heroes, Villains, Red Herrings, And Triumphs.

As A Writer, You Paint Strokes And Leave Suggestions So Readers Can Create Their Own Pictures. That Allows You To Know Someone By A Small Action And It Saves Countless Pages Of Explanation.

A Common Question Asked Of Writers Is "when Did You Decide To Become A Writer?" The Answer, Of Course, Is That We Didn't Decide Anything. It Was Decided For Us. I Firmly Believe That Mythical Godmothers Make Appearances At Our Cradles, And Bestow Their Gifts. The Godmother Who Might Have Blessed Me With A Singing Voice Did Not Show Up; The Goddess Of Dance Was Nowhere In Sight; The Chef-to-the-angels Was Otherwise Engaged. Only One Made The Journey To My Cradle, And She Whispered, "you Will Be A Storyteller."