I’m looking forward to getting back to my house and my Ugg boots and not washing sometimes, and getting back to writing.
If you’ve been married for 400 years, as I have, it’s nice to experience first love again and you can vicariously through a book.
Once you’re in charge of your job, your house, your children, getting the food on the table, doing all of this, all of the time, it’d be nice for someone else to be in charge for a bit maybe.
It’s much easier to wear your pain on the outside.
I came up with a story and I wrote it.
Women basically want the same thing – a good passionate story, a great fantasy – and for our partners to do the laundry and the washing up.
God forbid that women have fantasies.
All a writer wants is to be read, and people are so flattering and lovely. I mean, there are witches out there as well. But most are so kind.
Language evolves and moves on. It is an organic thing. It is not stuck in an ivory tower, hung with expensive works of art.
Good evening, Mrs. Grey,” Christian says softly. He’s standing by the piano, dressed in a tight black T-shirt, and jeans... those jeans- the ones he wore in the playroom. Oh my. They are over washed pale-blue denim, snug, ripped at the knee and hot. He saunters over to me, his feet bare, the top button of the jeans undone, his smoldering eyes never leaving mine. “Good to have you home. I’ve been waiting for you.
Only when the last leaf has fallen, the last tree has died, and the last fish been caught will we realize that we cannot eat money.
The candle flame is too hot. It flickers and dances in the over-warm breeze, a breeze that brings no respite from the heat. Soft gossamer wings flutter to and fro in the dark, sprinkling dusty scaled in the circle of light. I’m struggling to resist, but I’m drawn. And then it’s to bright, and I am flying too close to the sun, dazzled by the light, fried and melting from the heat, weary in my endeavers to stay airborn. I am so warm. The heat... It’s stiffling, overpowering. It wakes me.
I have spoken to no one, not even my mother or Ray. I don’t have the capacity for idle talk now. No, I want none of it. I have become my own island state. A ravaged, war-torn land where nothing grows and the horizons are bleak. Yes, that’s me. I can interact impersonally at work, but that’s it. If I talk to mum, I know I will break even further – and I have nothing left to break.
I want to own this woman, body and soul. I want her.
She’s my dream catcher. She keeps my nightmares at bay.
A woman is a sack, made to endure.
Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Steele.
I don’t do romance, sweetheart.
I’ve flown from Seattle just to see you, and the way you look right now, it was really worth the journey.
I give you my solemn vow to be your faithful partner in sickness and in health, to stand by your side in good times and in bad, to share your joy as well as your sorrow. I promise to love you unconditionally, to support you in your goals and dreams, to honor and respect you, to laugh with you and cry with you, to share my hopes and dreams with you, and bring you solace in times of need and to cherish you for as long as we both shall live. – Ana Grey.