On Saturday I went out to dinner with some fellow writers, and their various spice, and as I drove home I was hit with an intense melancholy because the evening was over, and there was no-more-party.

Most of the time I don’t notice that I’m alone because I have this crowd of whispering ghosts walking at my side.  Richard from the EDGE books, Tracy who will be the hero of IMPERIALS is demanding my attention, Linnet is still insecure, Shepard notices things and wants to comment. 

I wonder if in an earlier time the church would have deemed us writers to be possessed?