Because She Was A Princess

My Books Happen. They Tend To Blast In From Nowhere, Seize Me By The Throat, And Howl 'write Me! Write Me Now!' But They Rarely Stand Still Long Enough For Me To See What And Who They Are, Before They Hurtle Away Again. And So I Spend A Lot Of Time Running After Them, Like A Thrown Rider After An Escaped Horse, Saying 'wait For Me! Wait For Me!' And Waving My Notebook In The Air.

All You Did Was Sit There, He Said. Why Are You So Tired? I Sat Very Diligently, She Said.

Beauty: "you Called Me Beautiful Last Night." Beast: "you Do Not Believe Me Then?" Beauty: "well - No. Any Number Of Mirrors Have Told Me Otherwise." Beast: "you Will Find No Mirrors Here, For I Cannot Bear Them: Nor Any Quiet Water In Ponds. And Since I Am The Only One Who Sees You, Why Are You Not Then Beautiful?

One Of The Biggest, And Possibly The Biggest, Obstacle To Becoming A Writer... Is Learning To Live With The Fact That The Wonderful Story In Your Head Is Infinitely Better, Truer, More Moving, More Fascinating, More Perceptive, Than Anything You're Going To Manage To Get Down On Paper.

I Smiled. "i Understand Now. But It Doesn't Matter And You Needn't Apologize. They Have Been Very Kind To Me Too. Even If We Did Differ A Little About Suitable Dresses." He Considered Me A Moment, A Mischievous Light Creeping Into His Eyes, And Said: "was That The Dress - That Night You Wouldn't Come Out Of Your Room?" I Grinned And Nodded, And We Both Laughed.