Mr. Twit Was A Twit. He Was

Had I Not Had Children Of My Own, I Would Have Never Written Books For Children, Nor Would I Have Been Capable Of Doing So.

The Witching Hour, Somebody Had Once Whispered To Her, Was A Special Moment In The Middle Of The Night When Every Child And Every Grown-up Was In A Deep Deep Sleep, And All The Dark Things Came Out From Hiding And Had The World All To Themselves.

The Maid Screamed. The Queen Gasped. Sophie Waved.

By The Time I Am Nearing The End Of A Story, The First Part Will Have Been Reread And Altered And Corrected At Least One Hundred And Fifty Times. I Am Suspicious Of Both Facility And Speed. Good Writing Is Essentially Rewriting. I Am Positive Of This.

Obscurity Is Never A Virtue.