Perhaps," said the man, "you would like to be lost with us. I have found it much more agreeable to be lost in the company of others.

I have learned how to love. And it's a terrible thing. I'm broken. My heart is broken. Help me.

There," she said. She rocked him back and forth. "There, you foolish, beautiful boy who wants to change the world. There, there. And who could keep from loving you? Who could keep from loving a boy so brave and true?

When I journal, I write about images that I've seen that I think might make good stories. I write about things that I hear that I think I can turn into a story. I write about the story that I'm working on and where I think it might go.

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.

All of God's creatures have names, every last one of them. Of that I am sure: of that I have no doubt at all.

And so he was reading the story as if it were a spell and the words of it, spoken aloud, could make magic happen.