I have always been a sto­ry­teller. Even before I could write my name, I could tell a good tale. And I told them all the time. As a preschool­er, I told my neigh­bors all about my three-legged cat named Spot. In kinder­garten, I told my class­mates about the ghost that lived in my attic. And in first grade I told my teacher, Miss Har­bart, all about my fam­i­ly’s trip to Paris, France.

I told such a good sto­ry that peo­ple always thought I was telling the truth. But I was­n’t. I did­n’t have a three-legged cat or a ghost in my attic, and I’d cer­tain­ly nev­er been to Paris, France. I sim­ply enjoyed telling a good sto­ry … and see­ing my lis­ten­er’s reaction.

Sure, some peo­ple might have said I was a sev­en-year old fib­ber. But not my par­ents. Instead of call­ing my sto­ries “fibs” they called them “imag­i­na­tive.” They encour­aged me to put my sto­ries down on paper. I did. And amaz­ing­ly, once I began writ­ing, I could­n’t stop. I filled note­book after note­book with sto­ries, poems, plays. I still have many of those note­books. They’re pre­cious to me because they are a record of my writ­ing life from ele­men­tary school on.

In sec­ond grade, I dis­cov­ered a pas­sion for lan­guage. I can still remem­ber the day my teacher, Miss John­son, held up a horn-shaped bas­ket filled with papi­er-mache pump­kins and asked the class to repeat the word “cor­nu­copia.” I said it again and again, tast­ed the word on my lips. I test­ed it on my ears. That after­noon, I skipped all the way home from school chant­i­ng, “Cor­nu­copia! Cor­nu­copia!” From then on, I real­ly began lis­ten­ing to words — to the sounds they made, and the way they were used, and how they made me feel. I longed to put them togeth­er in ways that were beau­ti­ful, and yet told a story.

As I grew, I con­tin­ued to write sto­ries. But I nev­er real­ly thought of becom­ing an author. Instead, I went to col­lege where I dis­cov­ered yet anoth­er pas­sion — his­to­ry. I did­n’t real­ize it then, but study­ing his­to­ry is real­ly just an exten­sion of my love of sto­ries. After all, some of the best sto­ries are true ones — tales of hero­ism and vil­lainy made more incred­i­ble by the fact they real­ly happened.

After grad­u­a­tion, I got mar­ried and had chil­dren. I read to them a lot, and that’s when I dis­cov­ered the joy and music of chil­dren’s books. I sim­ply could­n’t get enough of them. With my two sons in tow, I made end­less trips to the library. I read stacks of books. I found myself beg­ging, “Just one more, pleeeeease!” while my boys begged for lights-out and sleep. Then it struck me. Why not write chil­dren’s books? It seemed the per­fect way to com­bine all the things I loved: sto­ries, musi­cal lan­guage, his­to­ry, and read­ing. I could­n’t wait to get started.

But writ­ing chil­dren’s books is hard­er than it looks. For three years I wrote sto­ry after sto­ry. I sent them to pub­lish­er after pub­lish­er. And I received rejec­tion let­ter after rejec­tion let­ter. Still, I did­n’t give up. I kept try­ing until final­ly one of my sto­ries was pulled from the slush pile and turned into a book. My career as a chil­dren’s author had begun.