June 2008 (cont.)

One was the unquestioning certainty I carried through my early days that my own dolls came to life. The only problem was that I could never catch them at it.

The other was a story I built in my head when I was young in which I, myself, was a tiny, living doll. In my story I lived in my dollhouse in the midst of—but necessarily apart from—my family. I was with but apart from them all in other ways, too. When we traveled, for instance, the rest of the family rode in traditional style inside the car, but I always rode on top, “protected” by a small railing. (Clearly, however rich my fantasy life might have been, I understood nothing about the laws of aerodynamics.)

Those two memories provided good energy for a story, enough good energy that I sold the idea—and a promise of a companion story—before either was written.

Then, however, I sat down to write. I set one word down after another, and though my story had nothing to do with the loss of a son, the loss of a partner, the words came out dark, very dark.

Ah, I said to myself, so this is the way you grieve.

But I kept going until I came to the end of the story. And surprise! That ending was tears, unfrozen, at last. The girl cried, the doll cried...and the tearful ending is also a beginning.