The World Was An Awfully Large Place

I Am Not A Storyteller . . . Not Like The Others. I Only Have One Tale To Tell.

You Make A Life Out Of What You Have, Not What You're Missing.

My Fingers Positively Itched To Drift At Length Along Their Spines, To Arrive At One Whose Lure I Could Not Pass, To Pluck It Down, To Inch It Open, Then To Close My Eyes And Inhale The Soul-sparking Scent Of Old And Literate Dust.

For It Is Said, You Know, That A Letter Will Always Seek A Reader; That Sooner Or Later, Like It Or Not, Words Have A Way Of Finding The Light, Of Making Their Secrets Known.

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