Oh, God. God, Isn't That Perfect? He's

I Didn't Get Fired." "you Didn't Punch Your Boss And Get Fired From The Tribune? That's What I Heard." "i Punched What Could Loosely Be Called A Colleague For Cribbing My Notes On A Story And Since The Editor–who Happened To Be The Asshole's Uncle–took His Word Over Mine, I Quit." "to Write Books. Is It Fun?" "i Guess It Is." "i Bet You Killed The Asshole In The First One You Wrote." "you'd Be Right. Beat Him To Death With A Shovel. Very Satisfying.

I Don't Believe For One Moment You Can Write Well What You Wouldn't Read For Pleasure.

Oh, God. God, Isn't That Perfect? He's Dad. He's Dad With A Layer Of Nerd. Solid, Steady, Chipping Away So Patiently, You Don't Even Know You've Had Your Shields Hacked Down Until You're Defenseless. It's The Type." "you're Not In Love With A Type, You're In Love With A Man," Penny Corrected. "or You're Not.

Certainly The Plagiarism, And Dealing With The Fallout Of It, Was The Most Difficult Thing I've Ever Faced Since I Started Writing.

She Surrounded Herself With Books At Work And At Home. Her Living Space Was A Testament To Her First And Abiding Love With Shelves Jammed With Books Tables Crowded With Them. She Saw Them Not Only As Knowledge Entertainment Comfort Even Sanity But As A Kind Of Artful Decoration.