Because She Was A Princess She Had

...there Remained A Strange Formality Between Them, And Her Pleasure In His Presence Felt Too Much Like Missing Him Had Felt During The Last Week.

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.

It Goes Something Like 'there Are A Lot Of Ways To Be Yourself.

Oh,' She Said, Too Bone-weary To Pretend: 'i Would Far Rather That I Love You As I Saw Yesterday I Do Than That I Had Gone On Worshiping You As I Did Not Long Since.' And She Turned Away Hastily, And Did Not See That Little John Would Reach Out To Her; And Half-running, Went To Tuck's Cottage, Where She Could Pull On Her Half-dry Clothes, And Become A Proper Outlaw Again. At Least, She Thought, Fighting Back Tears, Like This I Am Cecil, With A Place Among Friends, And A Task To Do. I Am Someone. I Wonder If Perhaps If I Am No Longer Cecil, I Am No One At All.

The Story Is Always Better Than Your Ability To Write It.