In A Dark Time, Doors Will Sometimes

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."

May God Strike Me Down With A Hammer On The Head Before I Write A Book With A Teach-y Goal!

That Is Surely The Truth, At Least For Now. But Perhaps You Have Not Noticed: The Truth Is Forever Changing.

So Here I Am, Sending A Two-ounce Mouse Down Into A Dungeon With A Sewing Needle To Save A Human Princess, And I Don't Know How In The World He's Going To Do It. I Have No Idea. That Was The First Time It Occurred To Me That Writing The Story Was Roughly Equivalent To Despereaux's Descent Into The Dungeon. I Was Tremendously Aware Of That As I Was Writing. I Thought, "i Have To Be Brave Or Else I'm Not Going To Be Able To Tell It." But It's The Only Way That I Can Write. If I Know What's Going To Happen, I'm Not Interested In Telling The Story.

Reading Is My Passion.