Hard pressed to answer the question, where does a character come from? I cannot answer. I only have the certitude that she or he is as real as anyone else and deserves my utter respect. Every story I ever wrote is here, in this world I walk. Circling the mall I stop for a second and think, "Isn't this the very mall and the very moment I wrote about?"

Long after the story is old and I forget that any of the people in it came to me utterly real, when I am convinced that they are not real, not possible at all, at a party, in a church, on a bus, the park, at the library I turn around and see him or meet her, blinking back at me. I am so ready to say, "What took you so long to get here? Don't you know, I've got a book all about you !"