We are writers. We plot as we lather, test dialogue on the interiors of our cars, clutch at pens on nightstands in the darkness. We thrill, we ache, we back up, we begin. We push our fingers into our eyes in coffee shops and bend our ears to the rhythm of sentences worked and worked again. And, when it is done, when the words transform to a weight in the palm, we trade them, and claw at them, and say to one another, "Masterful." Here, we offer tribute to literature that shines.