I Look At Pastries And Cakes, Tarts

We Stare Into Each Other's Eyes And Softly Kiss Speaking And Saying More With The Movement Of Our Lips And The Tips Of Our Fingers Than Words Will Allow Us To Say. Words Can't Say This. The One Word Love Means Too Little For What It Is. It Means Everything And That Is Still Not Enough. It Doesn't Communicate Even A Fraction Of The Feelings Involved. Love. The Word Is Not Enough For What It Is. Love. Love.

I'm A Writer. I Never Expected To Be Recognised On The Street. I Never Expected To Get That Kind Of Coverage, Good Or Bad. I Never Expected To Sell As Many Books As I Have.

To Write A Damn Good Thriller, You Need A Killer Attitude.

It Started When She Passed Me A Note In English Class. The Note Said You Don't Seem As Awful As I Hear You Are. I Passed One Back That Read: Beware I Am As Awful As People Say And Worse. She Laughed And I Had A Friend. She Didn't Become My Ally And I Didn't Ask Her To Or Want Her To But She Became My Friend And That Was More Than Anyone Else Was Willing To Do.

I Felt Like I Had Lost Something. But Not Something Silly, Like My Keys Or My Gum; More Like My Arm Or My Foot, Something That Really Mattered. Like Something That I Could Live Without, But Would Make Life Much Harder If It Were Missing. And Life Is Hard Enough. Life Is Hard Enough With Everything We're Given.