I am told to write the story of a 3-year-old girl who spent the "war years" in a hidden room, rather comfortably furnished with left over chairs and drapes. Someone says they had remembered it was all cream-colored. I muttered, "So much for accurate memory." She and her mother had been in that room hiding during the Nazi years. So I started writing the story on leftover paper, writing in the patches between other words. Millie comes over and starts to read it. I ask to see hers. She says, "No. It's not very good. Not like yours. Look at your first sentence. It's so clear, and you spent last night with those Indians, too." She meant I'd been busy babysitting some active boys and didn't have time to work on the story.