… there lived a girl who loved to write and I was that girl.
Only, I didn’t know I was a writer.
I filled thousands of pages in journals and notebooks.
I imagined story lines and watched them play across the movie screen in my mind. I saw characters and heard their voices. I understood the longing of their hearts.
We became friends.
(Before you become worried, let me assure you. This is completely normal for picture book writers.)
There was Rosa and Momma… little Tommy Joe who refused to go to sleep… Anna Maria picking peas… Mudpie Mabel who couldn’t stand petticoats and curls… Rupert the Mouse and his many adventures… and of course, Santa Claus… dear, dear Santa Claus.
They all lived well and happy within the boundaries of my imagination, until one day…
I realized I was a writer.
Suddenly, their lives poured out on paper and I was helpless to stop it.
As a writer, I do not create stories.
I am entrusted with stories.
They are a gift and I must tell their story well.
So, day after day, I practice my craft. I put a pen to paper and my fingers on the keyboard. I map story lines and analyze dialogue. I am doing the work now in order that my story might change.