Ghosts Were Just A Way That Some

All Forests Have Their Own Personality. I Don't Just Mean The Obvious Differences, Like How An English Woodland Is Different From A Central American Rain Forest, Or Comparing Tracts Of West Coast Redwoods To The Saguaro Forests Of The American Southwest... They Each Have Their Own Gossip, Their Own Sound, Their Own Rustling Whispers And Smells. A Voice Speaks Up When You Enter Their Acres That Can't Be Mistaken For One You'd Hear Anyplace Else, A Voice True To Those Particular Tress, Individual Rather Than Of Their Species.

Often The Magical Elements In My Books Are Standing In For Elements Of The Real World, The Small And Magical-in-their-own-right Sorts Of Things That We Take For Granted And No Longer Pay Attention To, Like The Bonds Of Friendship That Entwine Our Own Lives With Those Of Other People And Places.

It May Sound Trite, But Using The Weapons Of The Enemy, No Matter How Good One's Intentions, Makes One The Enemy.

It's Easy To Believe In Magic When You're Young. Anything You Couldn't Explain Was Magic Then. It Didn't Matter If It Was Science Or A Fairy Tale. Electricity And Elves Were Both Infinitely Mysterious And Equally Possible - Elves Probably More So.

Everything Is The Way It Is Because We've All Agreed That's The Way It Is.