I'm in tears. I'm crying. Sheesh, you guys must think I'm a sappy cryaholic, but ... man. I swear, I'm really crying.
Over a mystery, for god's sake.
My God, have you read the latest J.D. Robb? I don't know how Nora does it. How, after twenty-three books, can a series have any deeper to go?
She managed, yet again, to dig deeper.
Nora Roberts is my hero.
Which sucks, because that means I can never meet her. I'd probably just break down and bawl or something.
I was going to say something intelligent about the book. I was going to point out all the evidence of her genius. I was going to rave about the technique and the skill and the craft.
But fuck. I have to go to bed so I can get up early and write. I've got twenty years of writing and a hundred and some more books to write before I can even dream of being half as good as her. Geezuz.