First lines of the novel I won't be writing today:
"He woke up with a migraine. Through razorblade eyes, he was nearly certain that the clock screamed 4:15. This had become his unwelcome routine; every morning, a little earlier.
Today was the 3-month anniversary of her death, a detail he wouldn't come to notice until he reached for her across their empty bed…”
"'Dear Diary,
The anthrax is weaponized. The kids are at daycare. The dishes are done, and leftovers have been put away. Today, I'll stop being invisible; the world will know my name.'
With that, he stepped out into the brisk November morning, never to return home again…"
First lines of the novel I won't be writing today:
"I should have recognized that smell, but I didn't. It took seeing the doctor's white lab coat before I started putting it together. A small smear of still-red blood, just above his waistline, brought an instant twinge of pain to the large incision at the base of my skull…”
First lines of the novel I won't be writing today:
"Their relationship was saddled with an unnatural secrecy. It was born at that unholy crossroads of poor timing and impatience — a deal with the devil they'd later regret. But, for a time, it was worth selling their souls for…"
First lines of the novel I won't be writing today:
"The sound of church bells through my open window brought her to mind — the girl who loved cameras, who I loved so long ago. It was after the war, when the whole world was younger, and our futures, for a moment, seemed intertwined."
First lines of the novel I won't be writing today:
"My schedule is rigid, inflexible. Everything I do is done with careful deliberation. My friends have retreated, one by one, and the doctors say my kidneys are shutting down. Opportunity has never darkened my doorway, and I don't have many days left."
