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)

Reading is my passion.

Despereaux marveled at his own bravery. He admired his own defiance. And then, reader, he fainted.

He was reading from the beginning so that he could get to the end, where the reader was assured that the knight and the fair maiden lived together happily ever after.

No one cared what she wanted. No one had ever cared. And perhaps, worst of all, no one ever would care.

There can be a lot of longevity in the repetition of things being told again and again in a variety of ways.

Mercy Watson is pure fun for me as a writer, because I think of her as kind of sorbet - a palate cleanser - between larger works. It's always a relief to come back to her.