That is surely the truth, at least for now. But perhaps you have not noticed: the truth is forever changing.
Kate DiCamilloThe draft that finally goes to my editor doesn't get into her hands until I have read it out loud innumerable times - sometimes into a tape recorder - to make sure that it sounds right.
Kate DiCamilloSEASONS PASSED, FALL AND WINTER and spring and summer. Leaves blew in through the open door of Lucius Clarkeโs 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 dollโs words over and over until they wore a smooth groove of hope in his brain: Someone will come; someone will come for you.
Kate DiCamillo