I Suppose There Will Never Be A

Grow Up, Bailey." "that Is Precisely What I'm Doing," Bailey Says. "i Don't Care If You Don't Understand That. Staying Here Won't Make Me Happy. It Will Make You Happy Because You're Insipid And Boring, And An Insipid, Boring Life Is Enough For You. It's Not Enough For Me. It Will Never Be Enough For Me. So I'm Leaving. Do Me A Favor And Marry Someone Who Will Take Decent Care Of The Sheep.

I Don't Always Write In Order, So Composing Multi-book Stories Could Get Complicated.

Have You Tried The Cinnamon Things?" Poppet Asks. "they're Rather New. What Are They Called, Widge?" "fantastically Delicious Cinnamon Things?

I Paint Very Messy. I Throw Paint Around. So When I Let Myself Do The Same Sort Of Thing With My Writing, And I Would Just Write And Write And Write And Revise, That's When I Found My Rhythm In Writing.

"i Am Already Married," She Remarks To The Empty Air, Twisting The Ring On Her Right Hand That Covers An Sold, Distinctive Scar.