It was the best of times, until the big man whose clock struck thirteen made it the worst of times.
You really have to swim down into yourself when you’re writing, which is why people confuse it all with mental illness.
When I asked about your tea selection, what I really meant to say was Goddamn you’re pretty.
A schmaltzy, eerily familiar tune that loops along, accordions swelling and shrinking, high-heeled, lipsticked women la-la-la-la-la-la-ing.
When should we run? After we have locked the door?
Talking Writing is an independent, 501(c)(3) nonprofit publication. No interest group has paid TW to mention the reviewed items here. The opinions expressed by TW writers are their own.
TW reserves the right to delete comments that are personal attacks or could be construed as libel.
TW does not guarantee the accuracy of outside links.
Fair-use guidelines apply for the use of book and journal covers, album covers, website screen images, and other promotional material in TW.
Donate to TW