Being A Martyr Is Highly Overrated.

The Cool Thing About Writing Is That There Is Really Never A Typical Day. Sometimes I Get A Rhythm Going And Head Off To Work Every Morning And Come Home At Night. Sometimes I'll Write For Two Days Straight And Then Be Utterly Blank For The Next Two.

If It Looks Like A Hallway, Feels Like A Hallway, And Acts Like A Hallway—is It Important To Figure Out That It Isn’t A Hallway?

Reluctantly, I Pulled Out My Necklace And Showed It To Them. Samuel Frowned. The Little Figure Was Stylized; I Suppose He Couldn't Tell What It Was At First. A Dog?" Asked Zee, Staring At My Necklace. A Lamb," I Said Defensively, Tucking It Safely Back Under My Shirt. "because One Of Christ's Names Is "the Lamb Of God."" Samuel's Shoulders Shook Slightly. "i Can See It Now, Mercy Holding A Roomful Of Vampire At Bay With Her Glowing Sheep." I Gave His Shoulder A Hard Push, Aware Of The Heat Climbing To My Cheeks, But It Didn't Help. He Sang In A Soft Taunting Voice, "mercy Had A Little Lamb.

The Warmth Of His Body Shouldn’t Have Felt Good. He Was Angry And Every Muscle Was Tense. It Was Like Being Leaned On By A Very Heavy, Warm Brick. A Sexy Brick.

My Father Said That A Silent Person Is Trying To Hide Something.