I Love Words; I Love The Way

On The Return Flight From My Mother In Florida , I Sat Next To A Businessman Who Asked Me What I Did For A Living. I Said, "i Write," And It Seemed Totally Ridiculous In The Face Of What Had Just Happened. I Mean, I Couldn't Think Of Anything More Pointless Than Telling Stories. He Asked, "what Do You Write?" I Said, "i Write Children Books."

Every Well-written Book Is A Light For Me. When You Write, You Use Other Writers And Their Books As Guides In The Wilderness.

I Think We Sent Tony Fucile Pictures Of Ourselves, Photos From Like When We Were Seven Years Old. That's What He Worked From. He Captured Exactly What We Looked Like. I'd Love To Do Another One With Alison, Not Just For The Joy Of Writing, But Also For The Joy Of Watching Tony Bring It To Life With His Illustrations. I'm Hoping At Bea, Or Ala, I'll Get To Meet Tony And Shake His Hand And Thank Him.

He Was Weeping. Although 'weeping' Really Is To Small A Word For The Activity The Kind Had Undertaken. Tears Were Cascading From His Eyes. A Small Puddle Had Formed At His Feet. I Am Not Exaggerating. The King, It Seemed, Was Intent On Crying Himself A River.

Never In His Life Had Edward Been Cradled Like A Baby. Abilene Had Not Done It. Nor Had Nellie. And Most Certainly, Bull Had Not. It Was A Singular Sensation To Be Held So Gently And Yet So Fiercely, To Be Stared Down At With So Much Love. Edward Felt The Whole Of His China Body Flood With Warmth. (page 128)