I don’t have any secrets and even if I did I would end up blowing them. Don’t trust me with your secrets!

Oh, Sarah, this post made me hug my arms to my chest and swivel gleefully in my desk chair, unaware for a moment that I wasn’t wandering Mid-World with Roland and his crew, I wasn’t smelling peonies and tiptoeing barefoot through velveteen grass with Mary and Dickon. I love re-reading the Dark Tower series with you because I feel right now we’re the only two people going mechanically through our days, only making the motions while our minds are dreamily ensconced in a world more gorgeous, more gripping and dangerous and heart-wrenching than ours. But your post reminded me that our own world can be filled with intrigue and magic and thrilling discoveries! Which is why I’m now even more delighted to be going to the newly re-opened library downtown tonight and smelling musty old books and transporting myself to my own little secret world.

Of course, someone’s secret is at least as likely to be “I was the one who pooped in your closet.” I actually knew this person in high school. Secrets: not always such a great thing.

And I’ve always wanted to build a walled garden, with a tiny little pond and hidden corners full of surpises, so I could be just like Mary. Um, but no tree swing, for obvious reasons.

Also cause them maybe Dicken would come be my literary boyfriend again, like he was when I was seven. (Well, Dicken and Gilbert Blythe were in a battle royal over the position. Dicken could talk to animals, but Gil had that hair-pulling thing going for him.)