Once upon a time, there was a short little girl with frizzy brown hair, blue eyes, and the largest glasses you’ve ever seen.  Her favorite pastime was sitting on her front steps on a warm summer’s evening, back against the wrought iron railing, reading by the light of the setting sun until it grew too dark to see the words on the page.

In second grade, her favorite books were in the Little House on the Prairie series.

In third grade, she gravitated toward The Hobbit.

In fifth grade, she read Where the Red Fern Grows and A Wrinkle in Time.

After that, it was high fantasy by David Eddings, nightmare-inducing Stephen King, and anything else she could get her hands on.

In college, she went through a William Faulkner love affair, and then plowed through many of the classics that she hadn’t known about before: Jane Eyre, George Eliot, Charles Dickens, John Updike.  And Harry Potter.  Because it had just come out.  Woah.  This girl is old.

Anyway, after college, she read books by Murakami, Ayn Rand, and lots of books about education and teaching English.

She went to graduate school for teaching and read even more education books.

She went through the National Board certification process and didn’t read hardly anything but YA novels for a year because they weren’t mentally draining and they kept her current with her students.

She started a PhD program in education, but then she had a baby.  He was very challenging.  So she quit her program and her teaching job and stayed home with her son.  She started reading to him.  A lot.

She started a blog about children’s books and how to effectively read with kids.  She fell in love with children’s literature.

And after a few years and another baby, she decided to write her own stories.

Because stories had been the one constant throughout her entire life.  She loved them, appreciated their power, and wanted to share her own with her children.  She also wanted to teach her children something about dreams and not having regrets and trying to do something worthwhile, even if it seems almost impossible.

(And she secretly wanted to be the next J.K. Rowling, because how cool would that be?  But she won’t admit that out loud.)

She can’t wait to see what the next chapter holds.

Not The End.