There is, finally, something mysterious about the life of one's characters. In my secret hart, I almost believe that one of these days I'll meet Jesse Aarons walking toward me on a downtown street. I'll recognize him at once, although he will have grown to manhood, and I'll ask him what he's been doing in the years since he built that bridge across Lark Creek.
On second thought, I probably won't ask. I'll smile and he'll nod, but I won't pry. Years ago he let me eavesdrop on his soul, but that time is past. He's entitled to his privacy now. Still, I can't help wondering.
(Katherine Paterson, People I Have Known in The Writer, April 1987)