The shapes arranged themselves into words, and the words spelled out a delicious and wonderful phrase: Once upon a time.

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.

Everything, as you well know . . . cannot always be sweetness and light.

This is a wonderful joke to play upon a prisoner, to promise forgiveness.

It's a weird kind of disconnect that this whole story [he Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane] grew around a real doll of mine, and here he is, with his "Edward" expression on his face. It's kind of reality bumping into fantasy.

The words, "I have a dog named Winn-Dixie," popped into my head in the voice of a small girl with a southern accent. I'd been writing long enough at that point to know not to ignore that kind of red flag. The next day, I put aside what I'd been working on, started with that one sentence, and followed it all the way to the end.

I read my books out loud to myself because of the demands of the story and demands of language.