I hope my obituary is written by someone who actually read my work.
I learned that although death was final, we weren’t allowed to mourn our losses.
As I open each envelope, the ancient rubber bands holding it together fall into little worms at my feet.
Our beloved agent reported that publishers couldn’t decide whether our subject was 'sexy or disgusting.'
As much as I complain about the cold, I love winter’s light coming through the windows each morning.
