Why I am a writer:

I learned to love writing back in fifth grade when my teacher, Mrs. Lahr, read my story aloud. It wasn’t a great plot—something about a girl and her horse, Maxie, that had shattered its shin bone. Dreadfully written and even more dreadfully sad, the story, nevertheless, was my debut. As I remember, during the reading, nobody but me really paid attention to Mrs. Lahr. But I heard every word—words I had written. Within an hour after that, however, I got in trouble for fighting (well, only a little pushing) with someone who mocked me for being a teacher’s pet, and I had to stay after school and then had to walk home alone from school and then had to listen to another voice—my dad’s—as he praised me for my writing and grounded me for fighting at school. It was a glorious day—sort of. There is nothing quite like hearing one’s written words being read aloud.

Now here I am, many years later, still writing words for someone else to read. But these words, talking about myself and my new web site, are some of the hardest words to share because they are about me. And I’d rather make up stories about other characters named Maxie or Alec or Aga. But I like to know a little about the authors I read, so I guess my readers might want to know something about me. You’ll find me to be quite normal—well, close to normal.

What helped me to begin

For many years, Michigan has been my home. I have grown up taking vacations near the Great Lakes and hiking forest trails throughout the state. However, my beginning—my birth—took place in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri, in a little town called Ava. Though I never really lived there, my family visited every summer, and my four siblings and I ran through the hills and played in the creeks from dawn until dark. Those were good days. I remember attending county fairs and going through all the barns to see the animals, and I remember burying my fingers in the thick wool of the sheep. At night, I would sit on the front porch of my grandparents’ home, listening to stories of people who lived long before then. I think that’s where my interest in history and story began. Because the stories were told to me, I had to imagine in my head what the setting and characters looked like. Even if I didn’t know the people in the story and even if the story had occurred long before then, I stayed until the final word, eager to know the ending.

In Michigan, I spent my time going to school and playing sports with my brothers and sisters. With five of us, we could be our own team and take on all challengers. Whether it was football—I can still throw a spiraling pass—or baseball or ice hockey, we did it all. Consequently, I grew to love sports. I played summer softball (always second base) and tennis (always doubles with my friend Suzie). Though I tried out for cheerleading, I never made it. But I still went to every football game in high school, mostly to see my friends.

Then I won my first award for writing. It was a piece about living in the United States, and I wrote about growing up in a rural area and attending a small school where I shared a classroom with my brothers and sisters. I wrote about my love for reading and writing and about my dream to be a teacher someday. And the piece I wrote won me my first airplane trip and a week in Washington, D.C. From that point on, I realized the power that writing can have. It allowed me to see my life on paper, and it helped me to share my thoughts with others.

Fast forward with me to Huntington College (now Huntington University) with its boyfriends, tennis games, dorm life, and homework, and step into a classroom where Edwina Patton stands, tapping her chalk on the board while she makes a point about participles or some such thing. Her hair is white and curled tight underneath. On her feet are odd leather coverings that look like bowling shoes with heels, and her dress (always a dress, never slacks or jeans) hangs well below her knobby knees. And did I mention she looks at least 90? But what will draw your eye (other than that relentless tapping on the chalkboard) is her brilliant red lipstick, smeared on and around her lips like she put it on in the dark and never checked it afterward. Ah, Miss Patton. The loudest voice I still hear in my head—and the first teacher to ever give me a D in writing.

“A ‘D’?” I said to her. “You can’t give me a D. I’m going to be an English teacher and a writer.”

Well then, Miss H.,” she answered. “We have some work ahead of us, don’t we?

And did I work—like a woman on a mission. I was determined that I had seen my one and only “D.” I had gone into college thinking I knew all I needed to know about writing and grammar and stuff. Edwina a/k/a “Colonel” Patton taught me otherwise. Working with her was like reviewing a manuscript with an editor. She read my words aloud; she asked me questions; she corrected my errors, and she believed in me. Three years and many courses later, we were good friends, and she had grown to be my mentor. When I left college (to take my first teaching job), she was the last person I sought out to say goodbye. She is the reason I am a teacher and writer today.

Where this has taken me

Now, several years of teaching later, I have published a number of articles and written my first book. “Colonel Edwina Patton” would be proud, but not as proud as the three men in my life: my husband, Bruce; and my sons Thad and Brent. I’ve run miles with them—literally. When the boys were younger I ran to keep up with them; when they grew older they ran with me as my husband and I trained for five marathons. I’m not a fast runner. In fact, I have two simple goals: to finish standing up and to not be last. As a result, I’ve run only marathons that have thousands of people, so I can fade into the crowd and be assured that someone will probably come in after me. I also run with a notecard and pencil in my pocket — for recording book ideas and interesting conversations.

Today, I teach in the English Department at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and I still run—though no marathons are in sight right now. And I read everything I can related to children’s and young adult literature. My teaching load includes not only writing classes but also children’s literature courses. So every day I’m picking up a book to share with my students or to read for pleasure. Most writers will tell you that writing begins with reading—as much as you can,as often as you can.

Throughout my life I have met characters who have settled in my memories and appeared in my writing. Whether I’ve discovered them in a classroom, on a train, or over a 26.2 mile jaunt, they cross my path and become a part of my existence. Not a day passes but that I realize how much our personal experiences shape our lives. I am thankful for the Colonel Pattons who took the time to teach me how to write about those experiences and who cared about me and my future.