When I write, I make discoveries about my feelings.

But what I really long to know you do not tell either: what you feel, although I've given you hints by the score of my regard. You like me. You wouldn't waste time or paper on a being you didn't like. But I think I've loved you since we met at your mother's funeral. I want to be with you forever and beyond, but you write that you are too young to marry or too old or too short or too hungry - until I crumple your letters up in despair, only to smooth them out again for a twelfth reading, hunting for hidden meanings.

I trust you to find the good in me, but the bad I must be sure you don't overlook.

Step follows step, Hope follows Courage, Set your face towards danger, Set your heart on victory.

If beginnings terrify you, or if you just plain don't like writing them, or if they bore you, skip 'em.

When I write, I make discoveries about my feelings.

I put my fingers around the unmarked ring of the spyglass and twisted. The scene became clear. Oh no! A hairy brown spider clung to a vine! I couldn't go there! I'd go to the desert to find a dragon. I began to reset the spyglass, but then I stopped myself. A spider was worse than a dragon? No. My first monsters would be spiders, then.