To-day I found myself in the crisis where I must scribble or die.
I regret to say that mine is a love story also, as every beginner’s book has been. I hope everybody will be contented with “The Destiny,” a respectable title for my fiction. Who says it is the style of name employed one hundred years ago?
The book will be concluded with three hundred pages.
Now I wonder whether a long story is in demand.
Chapter I, is as follows:
WHEN THE MOON ROSE.
This story begins when the moon rose.
Its silvery rays—it was six P.M. of April—fell on the Shiba park in laughter.
My heroine jogged along into the park, singing a light song.
“Miss Honourable Moon, how old are you?