I don’t ever want to read a book with the word globe in it again.

So what do you do?′ she asked. ‘I sneak around at night, well, usually at night, and gather coins out of fountains’, I said slowly, watching her face for judgement. She burst into laughter. ‘Like spare change? You collect people’s wishes? And you spend them on yourself?’ ‘They’re not wishes’ I said. ‘They lose their symbolism once they hit corporate water. At that time they either become extra income for people who don’t need it, or they can help me get along in the world.

So what do you do?' she asked. 'I sneak around at night, well, usually at night, and gather coins out of fountains', I said slowly, watching her face for judgement. She burst into laughter. 'Like spare change? You collect people's wishes? And you spend them on yourself?' 'They're not wishes' I said. 'They lose their symbolism once they hit corporate water. At that time they either become extra income for people who don't need it, or they can help me get along in the world.

For the first time, I smelled her. I can't describe the smell. Flowery, yet somehow musty, like a beautiful woman with the soul of an old book.

There is a point where, as a writer, you grow to hate your characters, their stupid motivations, and their whiny inner dialogues. The only solution I have found to deal with that is to kill the character, resurrect him, then kill him again.