She had curves in all the wrong places. She had a boob sticking out of her kneecap and I’d never seen an ass on the back of someone’s head before
She had legs that went on forever. And ever, and ever. Legs going on into the endless primordial void from which we all came from and to which we shall all return. Her toes touched infinity, her hips perched on the cessation of existence.
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"Well meaning adults can easily destroy a child’s love of reading - do not discourage children from reading because you feel they’re reading the wrong thing. There is no such thing as the wrong thing to be reading and no bad fiction for kids." - Neil Gaiman
I remember the strange panic attack before I went on to give this speech: the conviction that I wouldn’t be able to read what I’d written, or speak in articulate sentences. I wound up talking (in my head at least I was talking) in a really slow and measured way, because I was not certain any of it would make sense, or that I’d be able to get through it.
Which I mention only because I get lots of messages in Tumblr asks, asking how I got to be so good at this, or how people can do things if they are scared or stressed or things are too hard. And the only answer I really have is, you do it anyway. But maybe you breathe and do it a bit slower than normally.