I Very Much Dislike Writing About Myself

I Am Like A Small Creature Swallowed Whole By A Monster, She Thought, And The Monster Feels My Tiny Little Movements Inside.

Today My Winged Horse Is Coming And I Am Carrying You Off To The Moon And On The Moon We Will Eat Rose Petals.

The First Book Is The Book You Have To Write To Get Back At Your Parents; The Book You Always Had In You. Once You Get That Out Of Your Way, You Can Start Writing Books.

February, When The Days Of Winter Seem Endless And No Amount Of Wistful Recollecting Can Bring Back Any Air Of Summer.

We Were Going To The Long Field Which Today Looked Like An Ocean, Although I Had Never Seen An Ocean; The Grass Was Moving In The Breeze And The Cloud Shadows Passed Back And Forth And The Trees In The Distance Moved.