Okay, let’s put it out front: I’m a writer or, if you’d like me to make that more clear: I am a writer. I write children’s books (picture books and Young Adult) that I hope adults will also enjoy. Did I ever tell you about the time I fell asleep while reading a bedtime story to my daughter? I will, later.
How did this happen? I mean, me being a writer. To be truthful with you, I have no idea. I was wandering around a classroom one day and somebody said, “You know, you tell great stories. You should write them down.” Later, I was wandering around a radio studio and someone said to me, “I like your stories. You should write them down.”
Years passed and I wrote some stuff down. I did. I really did. Then I lost it. Sometimes when people say they lost it, they mean ‘I went crazy.’ I didn’t go crazy, though. I stored all the stuff I wrote down in a big, cardboard box. Then I lost it. That set me back a bit. Actually, it set me back a lot. You would have thought some of that stuff would have been sent to magazines or book publishers or a bank. I put my money in a bank, so why did I put all the stuff I wrote in a box, and a cardboard box at that? Did I tell you I wasn’t crazy?
Eventually I wandered from the land that time forgot. I’d tell you where that was, but I forgot until I got here, the Promised Land where my daughter said, “You know, Dad, you make up some great stuff. I’ll bet you could write some great stories for children (actually, she didn’t say, ‘children,’ she said, ‘kids.’ A long time ago some teacher told me, “When in the presence of children you should never refer to them as ‘kids,’ because they will find that insulting. After all, kids are goats and children are not goats.” Can you believe I still remember that? Did I tell you I’m a writer?