Perhaps It Is A Human Thing, To

One Of The Biggest, And Possibly The Biggest, Obstacle To Becoming A Writer... Is Learning To Live With The Fact That The Wonderful Story In Your Head Is Infinitely Better, Truer, More Moving, More Fascinating, More Perceptive, Than Anything You're Going To Manage To Get Down On Paper.

The Weak Grey Light That Serves As Harbinger Of Red And Golden Dawn Faintly Lit My Window. I Fumbled For A Candle, Found And Lit It, And By Its Little Light Saw That The Rose Floating In The Bowl Was Dying. It Had Already Lost Most Of Its Petals, Which Floated On The Water Like Tiny, Un-seaworthy Boats, Deserted For Safer Craft. "dear God," I Said. "i Must Go Back At Once.

It Doesn't Matter If I'm Only To Be Gone Four Days, As In This Case; I Take Six Months' Supply Of Reading Material Everywhere. Anyone Who Needs Further Explication Of This Eccentricity Can Find It Usefully Set Out In The First Pages Of W. Somerset Maugham's Story "the Book-bag.

But It Was Equally Clear To Her That This Was Her Fate, That She Had Called Its Name And It Had Come To Her, And She Could Do Nothing Now But Own It.

Say Yes, Babe, Or I'll Spill You Off Over The Wall Next Time - Got It?