Within each of us there is a story yet to tell. Sometimes it is our story. Sometimes it is someone else’s. For me, writing is a way of processing a time, a situation, a conflict or a joy in my life. Personal. Of our country. My children. My parents. My friends. My students. A stranger at the grocery store. A woman at the doctor’s office. Everyone has a story. I write something every day. Sometimes it’s a list, a letter, a journal entry, or a scene from a next book. The act of writing helps me make sense of the world around me. Always has. I process in a what-if fashion and I have a never-ending curiosity. I write primarily for the main question-askers of the world: children. But I also write for all audiences on loss, healing, confidence, perseverance and hope.
I remember the childhood joy of visiting the school library and the crazy delight of passing by the tables of fresh, crisp books at the annual Scholastic book fairs. When no one was looking, I grabbed a book and cracked it open – placed that book right under my nose with a giant inhale of fresh, new book smell. I would volunteer to take notes from the A wing to the B wing knowing I would get to pass by the book tables in front of the Main Office of my beloved Newfield School. My love of beautiful stories, like the Laura Ingalls series, and my creative writing in blank books and on yellow legal pads, eventually led me to seek a Master of Arts in Children’s Literature from Simmons College in Boston. I am a proud member of the SCBWI — the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators.
Taking time to think and be in the quiet and receive is also a gift. An important part of our days we mustn’t forget quiet enough to receive. I wish I might have had the chance to meet Ralph…Ralph Waldo Emerson, that is. We might have even been friends because I believe so much in his writings…such as: Let us be silent that we may hear the whisper of God.