Writing is always a process of discovery—I never know the end, or even the events on the next page, until they happen. There’s a constant interplay between the imagining and shaping of the story.

That there were other worlds, invisible, unknown, beyond imagination even, was a revelation to him.

...and the distance between them, millimeters only, the space of a breath, opened up and deepened, became a cavern at whose edge he stood.

No one could suspect the intricate mysteries of her heart.

Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch.

After all these years, I feel so free. Who knows where I might fly?

The Lake of Dreams grew gradually, over many years, elements and ideas accruing until they gained enough critical mass to become a novel.