I believe It was a "Little Golden Book" and it had cute baby elephants in it. I pawed through, absorbing every detail. I was only about three and couldn't read yet, but the book suggested a delightful world where adorable animals were cherished and safe and did fun things, like me in my crib. Anything but love was unimaginable.

It was actually an essay I wrote in second grade about why I liked Ricky, the little boy who lived down the street. "I like him because he has a big, round head," I remember writing, sensing this kind of silliness was entertaining to adults. I described how I'd run down to Ricky's house and leave little plastic horses in his mailbox as tokens of my affection. And how at school I'd get my friends to join hands around him and play "ring around the Ricky." He was terrified of me.

I write scene by scene, scribbling ideas in a notebook (food, clothes, bits of dialog, etc.) then typing them into my laptop. I then attempt to write a few sentences in a paragraph over the details so I can refer to them as I write. When I think the scene is going in the right direction, I usually get up and eat something or go for a walk, where more ideas are likely to pop into my head. It's a slow process, but I get a lot of exercise.

Edith Wharton and Patricia Highsmith.