“With each book I write, I become more and more convinced that the books have a life of their own, quite apart from me.”

So strange. I was out at meetings all day and came back to the news that L’Engle had died and, separately, this e-mail from a friend…

So I had this dream the other night.

I dreamt that I came to your home, and when I walked in the door, there were about 50 or 60 people milling around. It wasn’t a party, and just a few of the people were talking with one another. They were, for the most part, sitting, standing, or moving about apparently aimlessly. It took me quite a while to find you, but finally I did. I asked, “have you finished your 4th draft?” and you answered, “Yes, just now.”

Then I started wandering through the crowd. I didn’t talk to anyone, but somehow, I suddently knew who all those people were. They were future characters, waiting for you to finish this book, and finally have time to pay attention to them.

Soon, I promise…