It Turns Out That There Is Something

I Came From An Anxious, Overly Intense East Coast Academic Family. That Was The Way Of Our Tribe.

Wasn't There A Spell For Making Yourself Happy? Somebody Must Have Invented One. How Could He Have Missed It? Why Didn't They Teach It? Was It In The Library, A Flying Book Fluttering Just Out Of Reach, Beating Its Wings Against Some High Window?

The Life I Should Be Living Had Been Mislaid Through Some Clerical Error By The Cosmic Bureaucracy.

I Loved Fantasy, But I Particularly Loved The Stories In Which Somebody Got Out Of Where They Were And Into Somewhere Better - As In The Chronicles Of Narnia, The Wizard Of Oz, The Phantom Tollbooth, The Dungeons & Dragons Cartoon.

A Novel With A Bad Middle Is A Bad Book. A Bad Ending Is Something I've Just Gotten In The Habit Of Forgiving.