Truth And Dreams Are Always Getting Muddled.

She Finds Tales Everywhere, In Grains Of Sand She Picks Up From The Garden, In Puffs Of Smoke That Drift Out From The Chimneys Of The Village, In Fragments Of Smooth Timber Or Glass In The Jetsam. She Will Ask Them, "where Did You Come From? How Did You Get Here?" And They Will Answer Her In Voices Very Like Her Own, But With New Lilts And Squeaks And Splashes In Them That Show They Are Their Own.

Books. They Are Lined Up On Shelves Or Stacked On A Table. There They Are Wrapped Up In There Jackets, Lines Of Neat Print On Nicely Bound Pages. They Look Like Such Orderly, Static Things. Then You, The Reader Come Along. You Open The Book Jacket, And It Can Be Like Opening The Gates To An Unknown City, Or Opening The Lid Of A Treasure Chest. You Read The First Word And You're Off On A Journy Of Exploration And Discovery.

What Are You?" I Whispered. He Shrugged Again. "something," He Said. "something Like You, Something Like A Beast, Something Like A Bird, Something Like An Angel." He Laughed. "something Like That.

The Best Tip For Writing Is Just To Write; To Sit Down And Write, To Begin Doing It And Not To Be Scared By The Blank Page.

I Don't Want To Be Little Again. But At The Same Time I Do. I Want To Be Me Like I Was Then, And Me As I Am Now, And Me Like I'll Be In The Future. I Want To Be Me And Nothing But Me. I Want To Be Crazy As The Moon, Wild As The Wind And Still As The Earth. I Want To Be Every Single Thing It's Possible To Be. I'm Growing And I Don't Know How To Grow. I'm Living But I Haven't Started Living Yet.