Can't All Beasts Be Tamed?

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.

At Least I Was True. My Intellectual Abilities Gave Me A Release, And An Excuse. I Shunned Company Because I Preferred Books; And The Dreams I Confided To My Father Were Of Becoming A Scholar In Good Earnest, And Going To University. It Was Unheard-of Several Shocked Governesses Were Only Too Quick To Tell Me, When I Spoke A Little Too Boldly -- But My Father Nodded And Smiled And Said, 'we'll See.' Since I Believed My Father Could Do Anything -- Except Of Course Make Me Pretty -- I Worked And Studied With Passionate Dedication, Lived In Hope, And Avoided Society And Mirrors.

The Story Is Always Better Than Your Ability To Write It. My Belief About This Is That If You Ever Get To The Point That You Think You've Done A Story Justice, You're In The Wrong Business.

If You Try To Breathe Water, You Will Not Turn Into A Fish, You Will Drown; But Water Is Still Good To Drink.

Your Attitude Is Perhaps A Little Unnecessarily Rigorous," Suggested Jack.