The Undoing Is Almost Always More Difficult

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.

Mercy Watson Is A Pig. She Lives With Mr. And Mrs. Watson, Who Are Not Pigs. I Had That Basic Premise, But I Couldn't Make It Work. I Would Come Back To It, Try It, See That I Was Failing, And Put It Aside.

There Are Those Hearts, Reader, That Never Mend Again Once They Are Broken. Or If They Do Mend, They Heal Themselves In A Crooked And Lopsided Way, As If Sewn Together By A Careless Craftsman. Such Was The Fate Of Chiaroscuro. His Heart Was Broken. Picking Up The Spoon And Placing It On His Head, Speaking Of Revenge, These Things Helped Him To Put His Heart Together Again. But It Was, Alas, Put Together Wrong.

I Always Write With Music. It Takes Me A While To Figure Out The Right Piece Of Music For What I'm Working On. Once I Figure It Out, That's The Only Thing I'll Play.

If The World Held Magic Powerful Enough To Make The Elephant Appear, Then There Must Exist, Too, Magic In Equal Measure, Magic Powerful Enough To Undo What Had Been Done.