Can I Come In? No! I'm In

I'm Not A Writer's Writer. I'm Not A Craftsman. I Could Be, And That Would Be A One-book-a-year Operation.

My Style Is Colloquial Storytelling. It's The Way We Tell Stories To One Another - It's Not Writerly, It's Not Overdone.

Sitting Tight? Holing Up? Waiting For Answers? Those Are Things I'm Not Good At. Planning A Massive Attack Against Mechanical Geeky-like Things When I Was Already Furious And Itching To Kill Something? Piece O'cake

Noooo!" On The Screen, A Woman's Eyes Bugged Almost Out Of Her Head, And I Tried Not To Scream. Tried Not To Scream In Exasperation, I Mean. The Serial Killer Was Right In Front Of Her, Wide Open! Clearly, Instead Of Weeping Like A Moron, She Could Be Lunging Forward And Administering A Swift Uppercut To The Chin. Then This Entire Pointless Ordeal Would Be Over With, And I Could Go Home.

Yeah, And So Max And Dylan Are Supposed To, Like, Go To Germany And Have Kids Together," I Heard Gazzy Say. My Eyes Popped Open And I Bolted Upright. "what?" Fang Said, His Voice Icy. "gazzy!" I Yelled. Wide Blue Eyes Looked At Me In Surprise, Then Back At Fang's Stoic Face. "oh. Was I Not Supposed To Say Anything?" Gazzy Asked.