About the book: for a year / Six months I wrote a novel, a family saga, weaving a web of misfortunes that befell three generations, thinking that I was successfully managing the heroes, all the threads in in my hands. But something went wrong, the threads got tangled into balls, the ends were not visible, I also felt unhappy. By spring, I put aside my writings, as my mother said, counted the remaining money, alas, there was not enough not only for coffee, but also for food for my beloved dog. The Prince’s face read: Be glad that I’m used to you, otherwise I would have long ago escaped from wheat porridge without butter and chicken legs. For six months I wrote a novel, a family saga, weaving a web of misfortunes that befell three generations, thinking that I was successfully controlling the heroes, all the threads were in my hands. But something went wrong, the threads got tangled into balls, the ends were not visible, I also felt unhappy. By spring, I put aside my writings, as my mother said, counted the remaining money, alas, there was not enough not only for coffee, but also for food for my beloved dog. The Prince’s face read: Be glad that I’m used to you, otherwise I would have long ago escaped from wheat porridge without butter and chicken feet.