People often ask me why I write stories for children. I have several answers to that question — and they are all true. But the truest answer is simply that I have always loved children’s books. I loved turning chunky board book pages to look at babies and baby animals and my favorite little puppy, The Pokey Little Puppy. I loved snuggling up on the sofa with mom or dad and one or more of my siblings for a bedtime story. Mom was a cozy cuddler. Dad did all the funny voices. Even if it was a grumpy-grouchy-all-wrong sort of day, storytime could make things better again — usher in good dreams, good sleep, a new day.
That’s a lot to expect from books, but somehow the stories keep on giving.
Officially, I’ve been grown up for a long time now. But I still love reading kids’ books. And I love getting to live inside the worlds of the books I write — for months, a year, sometimes many — as the characters and stories unfold.
It’s so exciting when the pieces all come together and the words just sing.
Then there’s that scary thrill inside . . . what will I write next?!