And it burns.
There is, in every honest woman I know, a creature that cannot be domesticated. It prowls through our dreams, enters the house, casts cold eyes on our children, and holds us rapt in its terrible beauty.
That's as long an excerpt from my manuscript, Ring of Fire, as I dare publish and not breach my contract. It's going slow and hard, and lonely with no comments section below each page. But it's going. And I'm starting to think you're going to like it.
Labels: the writing life