I've Been Recognized In Airports Lots Of

Nobody Ever Learns Anything.

For Children: I'm Writing A Picture Book About The Big Dipper And A Novel About A Cricket, A Firefly And A Vole. For Grownups: I'm Writing Poems.

Love Is In All Of The Books, And That's The Connective Tissue Between Them. There's A Lot Of Hope In Me; I Can Feel It. These Stories Are Balls Of Light For Me.

It Is Always Just Telling A Story, Regardless Of The Age Of The Reader. Except, If I'm Writing Something For Kids, I Know There Has To Be Hope. I Don't Necessarily Feel That Responsibility For Adults, But I Emphatically Feel It For Children. That's The Only Difference. There's No Syntax Difference. There's No Semantics Difference. There's No Thematic Difference.

Seasons Passed, Fall And Winter And Spring And Summer. Leaves Blew In Through The Open Door Of Lucius Clarke’s Shop, And Rain, And The Green Outrageous Hopeful Light Of Spring. People Came And Went, Grandmothers And Doll Collectors And Little Girls With Their Mothers. Edward Tulane Waited. The Seasons Turned Into Years. Edward Tulane Waited. He Repeated The Old Doll’s Words Over And Over Until They Wore A Smooth Groove Of Hope In His Brain: Someone Will Come; Someone Will Come For You.