Magic Is Wild, Dangerous Stuff.

She Still Had Her Bad Days, No Question, When The Black Dog Of Depression Sniffed Her Out And Settled Its Crushing Weight On Her Chest And Breathed Its Pungent Dog Breath In Her Face. On Those Days She Called In Sick To The It Shop Where, Most Days, She Untangled Tangled Networks For A Song. On Those Days She Pulled Down The Shades And Ran Dark For Twelve Or Twenty-four Or Seventy-two Hours, However Long It Took For The Black Dog To Go On Home To Its Dark Master.

It's An Engrossing Look At The Way The Flow Of Information Shapes History-as Well As A Rare Glimpse Into The Soul Of The Hardcore Geek

It's Natural For A Child To Assume That His Or Her Own Childhood Is Unremarkable.

I Always Hated Those Fantasy Books Where, At The End, All The Kids Had To Go Home. At The End Of A Narnia Book, You Always Got Shown The Door. Same With The Wizard Of Oz And The Phantom Tollbooth. You Get Kicked Out Of Your Magic Land. It's Like, "by The Way, Here's Your Next Surprise: You Get To Go Home!" And The Kids Are All Like, "yay, We Get To Go Home!" I Never Bought That. Did Anybody Buy That?

I'm A Fantasy Writer. I Don't Do Sf. This Is Important To Me. If You're Not Clear On What Genre You're In, Everything Gets Muddled, And It's Hard To Know Which Rules You're Breaking.