“Can I brush your hair?” she asked as she led the way, her disposition doing a 180 on a dime. Kids. Can’t live with ’em. Can’t eat ’em for lunch.”

“Can I brush your hair?” she asked as she led the way, her disposition doing a 180 on a dime. Kids. Can’t live with ’em. Can’t eat ’em for lunch.”

“The point is, stories can be all lengths. Never underestimate the power of “less is more.”

“For the first time in my life, I was in a shoot-out. A real, honest-to-goodness shoot-out with a bad guy. And, apparently, we both sucked.”

“Gemma Davidson,” she answered, her voice as groggy as I felt. “Where are you?” I asked. “Who is this?” “Elvis.” “What time is it?” “Hammer time?” “Charley.” “Did you text me? Did your car break down?” “No and no. Why are you doing this to me?” She was funny. “Check your cell.” I heard a loud, sleepy sigh, some rustling of sheets, then, “It won’t come on.” “Not at all?” “No. What did you do to it?” “I ate it for breakfast. Check the battery compartment.” “Where the hell is that?” “Um, behind the battery door.” “Are you punking me?” I heard her fumbling with the phone. “Gem, if I was going to punk you, I wouldn't simply turn off your phone. I would pour honey in your hair while you slept. Or, you know, something like that.” “That was you?” she asked, appalled.”

“No writing is effortless. I’m not saying you can’t have a good day where the words just kind of flow, but even those words have to be edited. Probably more than once. And I’m not saying a character hasn’t somehow gone in a different direction that I wanted her to go, but that was me, not her. I let her get away from me. I let her roam free and nine times out of ten, the result is not good. I have to go back and start over because she veered off the path of my book. She changed the vision. And I did that. Not her.”

“Writing is transcendental. It is a form of expression, a form of art that you can take anywhere. That you can do anywhere. It poses the deepest questions in the universe. It generates emotion. It elicits empathy, promotes learning, creates an intellect you simply cannot get from any other medium. For me, it is air.”

“Writing doesn’t get any easier with time or talent. If writing is easy for you, you’re probably still learning the craft. You haven’t perfected your style or landed upon your “voice.” You haven’t learned to analyze your writing with a critical eye, to rip it apart and figure out why it isn’t doing exactly what you want.”

“Real writers write. Period. No, the muse does not come to visit everyday. She’s a lazy, precocious flirt. You cannot get into the habit of being “in the mood” to write. No writer on Earth is in the mood to write everyday, but the good ones do it anyway. They fight through their fatigue, their stress, their doubt, and they write. They get the words on the page. Period. So stop waiting for your muse. Trust me, she sleeps around.”

“Who knew Demon Child would have such a normal name? I expected something exotic like Serena or Destiny or the Evil One That Comes in the Night to Make Us Chilly.”

“I am apparently the complete opposite of a sociopath. (Seriously. I took a test.) WHEW! ‪#‎dodgedabullet‬”

“How old are you, anyway?""How old are you?""Seventeen."I raise a brow."Almost. I'll be seventeen in two weeks. You?"Part of me doesn't want to tell her. She'll be horrified. But part of me wants to know what she will do when she knows the truth. "How old do you think I am?"She lifts a slender shoulder. "At first I thought maybe eighteen, but now I'm thinking at least nineteen. Maybe even twenty?""why's that?""You seem very ... experienced."I nod. "You're close. Today's my birthday. I'm thirteen.”