Bio
The summer I turned eight was a great, green summer. We lived at Mount Hermon–a Christian conference center nestled in the giant redwoods of California.
That summer, we walked on paths bathed in a misty, green light that filtered through branches high overhead. One path we trod daily, wound down to the swimming pool. Another took us to boat docks so we could row on the river.
At night there were campfire sing-alongs, and warm walks home in the dark. It was the summer of turning for me. The summer I grew out of being the baby of the family and became an individual.
I got my first bee sting that year.
And I fell in love with reading.
Reading, in a huge way, made me an individual. When I chose books, I chose my own friends. I was no longer stuck with the kid next door who picked his nose and ate his boogers. My world suddenly offered more choices. When I discovered books, I discovered a limitless social circle. Sometimes I hung with friends who were deliciously dangerous, even. And I traveled. Far from home. And I fought evil . . . and came home late . . . and lived to tell about it.
Treasure Island ravished me first. After that, so many followed that it would be impossible for me to choose a favorite. Should I be forced, would I pick The Scarlet Pimpernel, or Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, or The Mysterious Island?
The Hobbit, The Chronicles of Narnia, and the Lord of the Rings Trilogy taught me to love loyalty and courage. Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, Heidi, and Emily, made me laugh and cry and filled my heart to bursting with lovely language. The Wolves of Willoughby Chaseand The Little Princess chilled me and thrilled me as the sweetest girls fell under the power of the most formidable of villains, yet ended up victorious. Robinson Crusoe, Wrinkle in Time, Fahrenheit 451 . . . all of these books helped me grow up and shaped the person I’ve become.
These stories had conflict and action and color and noise. The characters opened their hearts to me and allowed me to share their lives. They taught me to relate to the world. They expanded my vision, helping me to see, to hear, and to sympathize–in short, to rejoice with those who rejoice and to mourn with those who mourn. They spoke eloquently of the human condition–the universal joys and sorrows of life.
I still love children’s books–The Wilderking Trilogy, the Inkheart books, The Bartimaeus Trilogy, On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness, Artemis Fowl, Holes, Sarah Plain and Tall, The City of Ember . . . they move me. They draw me in. They remind me to laugh and to worship the God who has given us so much beauty in the midst of this desert wherein we wander.
When I was six, I wrote a humorous story and when the teacher read it aloud, the whole class laugh in all the right places. I decided then that I’d be a writer when I grew up. I wanted to write so I would be understood.
When I fell in love with reading, my desire to write gained strength. I wanted to write to give something back. To give others the same joy my favorite authors had given me. I wanted to write great books. Books that would whisk children into strange new worlds, over stormy seas and across vast deserts.
I still want that. I want to write books that will make readers ache with longing as they turn the last page. Books with characters you know by heart and love by the truckload. Characters who have suffered and struggled and overcome.
I have not yet written any great books. But the really cool thing is this: as long as I am studying my craft, my husband allows me to buy the best children’s books. And he lets me read while the broth on the stove bubbles forgotten . . . for hours . . . until the soup becomes a mushy stew and there are burnt patches on the bottom of the pot. Oh, happy is the woman with a loving husband in the dining room and lots of children’s books and a comfy couch in the living room.
