Grief, It Seemed, Was A Physical Place.

Writing Is Always A Process Of Discovery—i Never Know The End, Or Even The Events On The Next Page, Until They Happen. There’s A Constant Interplay Between The Imagining And Shaping Of The Story.

She Had Died At Age Twelve, And By Now She Was Nothing But The Memory Of Love-- Nothing, Now, But Bones.

Away From The Bright Motion Of The Party, She Carried Her Sadness Like A Dark Stone Clenched In Her Palm.

A Fear Paul Had Transformed All These Years, Like A Gifted Alchemist, Into Anger And Rebellion.

After All These Years, I Feel So Free. Who Knows Where I Might Fly?