One Keeps Searching For Ease, She Did

For Anyone Who Is: Just Keep Writing. Keep Reading. If You Are Meant To Be A Writer, A Storyteller, It'll Work Itself Out. You Just Keep Feeding It Your Energy, And Giving It That Crucial Chance To Work Itself Out. By Reading And Writing.

And If My Choice Is To Sit Graciously In My Best Robes And Accept The Inevitable Or To Bail A Sea With A Bucket, Give Me The Bucket.

The Bus Timetable Sites Are All Run By An Inbred Cabal Of Malicious Gnomes. Who Don’t Speak English. And Who Don’t Count Very Well Either. Or Tell Time. And They Certainly Can’t Read Maps.

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

...and Again She Wished For Sherwood, And The Dappled Roof Of Leaves That Never Weighed Upon Her. She Pulled Her Scarf Closer Around Her And Thought, I Would Rather Live In A Hut In The Woods; A Hut Like The One Of My First Memories, With A Clean-swept Dirt Floor, And A Brown-eyed Boy Watching Me From Behind His Mother's Skirts As I Watched Him From Behind Mine.