He Had Never Even Glimpsed Her.

He Fished In His Pocket For His Keys And Instead Pulled Out The Last Geode, Gray And Smooth, Earth-shaped. He Held It, Warming In His Palm, Thinking Of All Mysteries The World Contained: Layers Of Stone, Concealed Beneath The Flesh Of Earth And Grass; These Dull Rocks, With Their Glimmering Hidden Hearts.

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.

He Had Never Even Glimpsed Her.

The City Of Pittsburgh Gleaming Suddenly Before Her . . . So Startling In Its Vastness And Its Beauty That She Had Gasped And Slowed, Afraid Of Losing Control Of The Car

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