When Reason Sleeps, The Monsters

I Probably Coughed Self-pityingly In Response, Little Aware That I Was About To Cross A Tremendous Threshold Beyond Which There Would Be No Return, That In My Hands I Held An Object Whose Simple Appearance Belied Its Profound Power. All True Readers Have A Book, A Moment, Like The One I Describe, And When Mum Offered Me That Much-read Library Copy Mine Was Upon Me.

I'd Pretty Much Given Up Hope Of Being Published, So I Just Wrote The Book I Wanted To Read.

That, My Dear, Is What Makes A Character Interesting, Their Secrets.

While I Wasn't Certain How I Felt About Spiritualists, I Was Certain Enough About The Type Of People Who Were Drawn To Them. Only People Unhappy In The Present Seek To Know The Future.

Rejection Is A Cancer, Edie. It Eats Away At A Person.