Life occasionally humbles us by making us turned on by someone whom we turn off.
Nothing humbles a beautiful woman better than not being wanted by a man whose girlfriend or wife is ugly (or not as beautiful as she is).
Then the front doorbell (already too long delayed by my rambling narrative) rang.
I like smart, funny, self-deprecating men.
A book can’t be a half fantasy any more than a woman can be half pregnant.
It is only people who are lacking, or bad, or inferior, who have to be good at things. You have always been full and perfect, so you had nothing to make up for.
The rabbis paled. I’d managed to terrify holy men. Maybe I could beat up a nun for an encore.
What surer sign is there that the creative aquifers are dry than a writer creating a writer-character?