Serious authors who aren't in it just for the money put a lot of themselves into a story. The characters are people who have to use my mind and heart because they lack one of their own, but the thoughts and feelings are--in their own way--real. When I finished "The Visitor" early this year, the main character David--a ten year old who faced a horrible crisis--was like a son to me. In many ways he reminded me of my late son. When I wrote the final paragraph, I felt like I was losing a child. In the privacy of my office, I put my arms across my chest and closed my eyes. My wife had entered without my hearing it. She said, almost tearfully, "You're hugging him, aren't you?" "Yes," I replied, a tear on my cheek; "I'm saying goodbye." I was moody and depressed for days. That reminds me of the time Norman Lear had the character Edith Bunker die off in All In The Family. The director saw producer Norman Lear standing in a corner of the stage set, tears streaming down his face. "Come on, Norman, she's not real." Mr. Lear looked up and shouted, "She was to me!" So if you get this strange feeling that JK Rowling knows what brand of socks Harry Potter wears, or whether Dumbledore was allergic to cheese, it's probably because she does know, even as I know David Ferguson's mom called him "That raven haired boy of mine." And it shows in the writing.
