An open letter to Kate DiCamillo
I just finished reading my son The Tale of Despereaux. And when I got to the coda, Storyteller, I wept. Because right now, I am in a fair bit of darkness. (I am fighting it, like our hero, with needles -- not one brave needle pointed straight at a rat's heart with all of my might and passion, but with many ones: placed by a professional in proper acupuncture points.)
Storyteller, I did what you asked: I imagined, for a moment, you as a tiny mouse, telling me your story with the whole of your heart, whispering in my ear in order to to save yourself and me from the darkness. And I thought: yes. Yes. Stories ARE light. Storyteller, I did find some light there. I did.
Storyteller, I did what you asked: I imagined, for a moment, you as a tiny mouse, telling me your story with the whole of your heart, whispering in my ear in order to to save yourself and me from the darkness. And I thought: yes. Yes. Stories ARE light. Storyteller, I did find some light there. I did.