There's Stories And Then There's Stories. The

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.

I Find The Characters In My Head And The More I Write About Them, The Better I Get To Know Them.

I Want To Be Magic. I Want To Touch The Heart Of The World And Make It Smile. I Want To Be A Friend Of Elves And Live In A Tree. Or Under A Hill. I Want To Marry A Moonbeam And Hear The Stars Sing. I Don't Want To Pretend At Magic Anymore. I Want To Be Magic.

We're All Made Of Stories. When They Finally Put Us Underground, The Stories Are What Will Go On.

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.