Life Was So Short; So Many Beautiful

It Seems To Be That Way With Most Things. No One To Do The Really Disagreeable Jobs Except Oneself.

I Remember Wanting To Write A Book With Someone, The Someone Being Kate [dicamillo], And We Decided To Write About Two Friends. We Had No Idea How To Begin This Project - Neither Of Us Had Ever Collaborated With Another Writer - And I'm Pretty Sure That We Began By Giving Our Two Friends A Sock, Just To See What They'd Do With It. And It Went From There.

The Image I Had Was Very Clear, And So In That Way The Miraculous Journey Of Edward Tulane Began Like Other Books.

When I Do It [writing] By Myself, There's A Lot More Terror And Uncertainty.

Seasons Passed, Fall And Winter And Spring And Summer. Leaves Blew In Through The Open Door Of Lucius Clarke’s Shop, And Rain, And The Green Outrageous Hopeful Light Of Spring. People Came And Went, Grandmothers And Doll Collectors And Little Girls With Their Mothers. Edward Tulane Waited. The Seasons Turned Into Years. Edward Tulane Waited. He Repeated The Old Doll’s Words Over And Over Until They Wore A Smooth Groove Of Hope In His Brain: Someone Will Come; Someone Will Come For You.