Callas

I send this bouquet of callas out to my agent, Amy Rennert, who took the time to read, again, the novel I've been writing. Who said: There are places left to darkness that might be flamed to light. Who said: There is an almost in these pages that you might render more absolutely right.

To have been taken in. To have been heard. When writing is the fierce thing inside yourself, the thing you cannot quell. When the book you are churning just this moment feels inevitable and elusive—both things at once, and necessary, and nearly within reach.

Reach.

Slip the flowers from their stems.