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Y’all know how much I love you? “Infinity and back again,” I say the way I’ve said it a million times. And then, daddy says to me, “go on and add a little bit more to that.

Jacqueline Woodson
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At the day's end, a writer lives alone with her story, wrestling with characters and settings, and the way light filters into and out of a scene. The deeper messages often escape her.Sometimes I take for granted the journey through the telling. At other times I curse the muse's power. But through it all, I live each day in deep gratitude.
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I knew I was lost inside the world, watching it and trying to understand why too often I felt like I was standing just beyond the frame—of everything.
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Creating a novel means moving into the past, the hoped for, the imagined. It is an emotional journey, fraught at times with characters who don't always do or say what a writer wishes.
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Nothing in the world is like this-a bright white page withpale blue lines. The smell of a newly sharpened pencilthe soft hush of itmoving finallyone dayinto letters.
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I was eleven, the idea of two identical digits in my age still new and spectacular and heartbreaking. The girls must have felt this. They must have known. Where had ten, nine, eight, and seven gone?
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It's easier to make up storiesthan it is to write them down. When I speak, the words come pouring out of me. The storywakes up and walks all over the room. Sits in a chair, crosses one leg over the other, says, Let me introduce myself. Then just starts going on and on.
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Do you remember?' Someone's always asking andsomeone else, always does
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Maybe this is how it happened first for everyone —adults promising us their own failed future.
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