Let's Start at the Beginning...
My mother firmly believed in reading us at least one story each night. My sister Katie is only 17 months younger so finding something that suited both our interests was never a problem. My mother read animatedly when the character called for it and her voice would easily flow into a soothing tone, the words coming off the page through her voice were like a lullaby. I was hooked for life. In my entire childhood I don't remember my mother not reading to us, except for the three days she was in the hospital having our little sister Stephanie. Even one very amusing New Years Eve after a party and what I realize now must have been many, many fuzzy navels, she read to us. (My mother found the story that night particularly funny for some reason...)
For as long as I can remember, books meant a peek into another world, the possibility for new people and new experiences. It never really even mattered what it was about. I remember stories about baby animals on a farm..."hush hush, it's sleepy time for little (fill in the animal)". I can still recite most of a book called "Katie the Kitten". I remember listening the Little Critter's problems, poured over the illustrations in "Little Golden Books" and the end-all-be-all were The Berenstain Bears books! Oh, the adventures and mysteries and excitement and comradery we felt with these characters as they taught us about manners, friends, school, life, fear, family, bullies, camp, new siblings, and so much more...and we just thought we were being entertained!
Naturally I began to desire to put my own words and adventures down on paper. Every little girl in ALL the books I read had a diary, so naturally I had to keep one. But the stories I made up in my head soon became much more interesting than my own daily life and eventually the stories started flowing from my mind to any scrap of paper I could find. The rest, as they say...
For as long as I can remember, books meant a peek into another world, the possibility for new people and new experiences. It never really even mattered what it was about. I remember stories about baby animals on a farm..."hush hush, it's sleepy time for little (fill in the animal)". I can still recite most of a book called "Katie the Kitten". I remember listening the Little Critter's problems, poured over the illustrations in "Little Golden Books" and the end-all-be-all were The Berenstain Bears books! Oh, the adventures and mysteries and excitement and comradery we felt with these characters as they taught us about manners, friends, school, life, fear, family, bullies, camp, new siblings, and so much more...and we just thought we were being entertained!
Naturally I began to desire to put my own words and adventures down on paper. Every little girl in ALL the books I read had a diary, so naturally I had to keep one. But the stories I made up in my head soon became much more interesting than my own daily life and eventually the stories started flowing from my mind to any scrap of paper I could find. The rest, as they say...