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Take your hands off her, Sinclair told the guy behind me, Or they'll write books about what I'll do to you.

MaryJanice Davidson

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MaryJanice Davidson
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: August 1
Author
Novelist
Writer
Write
Hands
Book
Sinclair
Take
Behinds
Writing
Behind
Told
Books
Guy

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She couldn't tell where his pupils ended and the irises began looking into those eyes was like looking into a well where children had drowned.
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I've always assumed he'd be around to be, you know, yelled at and taken for granted. And of course I was wrong. Nobody's going to put up with that forever.
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You don't scare me, Cadence Jones. I've lived with crazy, I've ridden with crazy, I've vacationed with crazy, I've visited crazy in various hospitals, I've sat in on therapy sessions with crazy. Frankly, I think women who don't have major emotional disorders are really very dull.
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My my Laura Goodman. I must say that is a charming name for a charming young lady. Eric's old. I broke in. Really really old. Er— really? Laura asked. Gosh you don't look even out of your thirties. Tons of face-lifts. He's a surgical addict. I'm trying to get him help. I added defensively when they both gave me strange looks.
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... friends are such a mixed blessing.
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All writers are crazy. So never mind what the editors and your family and your critique group tells you. Submit your manuscripts and keep submitting until you get an offer. Then you can be crazy, with a paycheck.
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Did vampirism encourage Stockholm syndrome?
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Has anyone ever told you that you lack focus?
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It's nice to see you again, Laura. Thank you, Mrs. T- No, no, no. Please, my name is- Mud, I suggested. Mud Barfbag Taylor. Call her Asshat for short. ~Laura, Antonia, Betsy
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Elizabeth Anne Taylor April 25, 1974 - April 25, 2004 Our Sweetheart, Only resting
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They weren't moving. Perhaps I was dazzling then with my ineptitude. It had happened before.
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The vampire bible, bound in human skin, written in blood, and full of prophecies that were never wrong. Trouble was, if you read the thing too long, it drove you nuts. Not I'm having a bad day and feel bitchy nuts or PMS nuts. I think I'll commit felony assault on my friends and rape my boyfriend nuts.
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I've got a folder full of rejection slips that I keep. Know why? Because those same editors are now calling my agent hoping I'll write a book or novella for them. Things change. A rejection slip today might mean a frantic call to your agent in six months.
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Can you burn me up with holy water? Poke me to death with your crucifix? Pelt me with communion wafers?
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It never failed—I'd buy a new journal, write like a madwoman for ten pages, then lose total interest in the process. Three months later, I'd start the whole process all over again. I think I just liked buying new notebooks.
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Interesting shade #23 Lush Golden Blonde highlights. Heyyyyyy.... The woman in the awful suit was me! The woman in the cheap shoes was me!
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You have attained maturity display it for us, if you please.
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I could have gone to medical school, I said. Except for all the math and stuff.
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Kissing Sinclair was like making out with a sexy timber wolf— he was licking my fangs and nipping me lightly and growling under his breath and it was...oh, it was really something.
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Majesty, I beg your forgiveness for the idignity you suffered and offer you the head of our enemy as— Put that thing down, I said impatiently. I can't talk to you when you're shaking his head like a damned maraca.
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