Win or lose, go easy on the booze.
Sold my soul to the devil for nice penmanship / now I write real pretty, but I’m starting to regret it
I don’t know what we’re for. I don’t know what we’re against. Except that we seem to be for winning and against somebody else winning.
Braving the wind and cold for the Holiday Parade of Lights. (Fun fact: the two cops patrolling my corner are newlyweds.)
[W]riting a 16-year-old isn’t going to guarantee that your book is YA if the voice isn’t a YA voice, just like including a romance in your book doesn’t guarantee your book is a romance if you don’t have a romance voice.
I’ve been calling my novel a campaign romance, because that’s the plot. But I definitely don’t have the romance voice. That I don’t know what to call how I write has made it hard to write sometimes. I like the names of things.
I walk past a full city block of cemetery every day.
Brando was given car fare to Tennessee Williams’ home in Provincetown, Massachusetts, where he not only gave a sensational reading, but did some house repairs as well.
The cabins were nicknamed Balmoral, because that’s where the Queen lives.
Super fascinating, but underwhelming exhibit about gay life among the stewards on British ocean liners in the 1960s. It left me wanting more and/or to write a novel.