I Need To Sleep, But Fear To

One Of The Big Breakthroughs, I Think For Me, Was Reading Robert A. Heinlein's Four Rules Of Writing, One Of Which Was, 'you Must Finish What You Write.' I Never Had Any Problem With The First One, 'you Must Write' - I Was Writing Since I Was A Kid. But I Never Finished What Writing.

We're All The Heroes Of Our Own Stories. So, When I Am Inside The Head Of A Character Who Would Otherwise Be Considered A Villain, I Have A Great Deal Of Affection For That Character And I'm Trying To See The World And The Events Through Their Eyes.

Catelyn Had Never Liked This Godswood. She Had Been Born A Tully, At Riverrun Far To The South, On The Red Fork Of The Trident. The Godswood There Was A Garden, Bright And Airy, Where Tall Redwoods Spread Dappled Shadows Across Tinkling Streams, Birds Sang From Hidden Nests, And The Air Was Spicy With The Scent Of Flowers.

Something About The Howling Of A Wolf Took A Man Right Out Of His Here And Now And Left Him In A Dark Forest Of The Mind, Running Naked Before The Pack.

Needle Was Robb And Bran And Rickon, Her Mother And Her Father, Even Sansa. Needle Was Winterfell's Grey Walls, And The Laughter Of Its People. Needle Was The Summer Snows, Old Nan's Stories, The Heart Tree With Its Red Leaves And Scary Face, The Warm Earthy Smell Of The Glass Gardens, The Sound Of The North Wind Rattling The Shutters Of Her Room. Needle Was Jon Snow's Smile. He Used To Mess My Hair And Call Me "little Sister," She Remembered, And Suddenly There Were Tears In Her Eyes.