School Visits
  Wolf Morning
The big and small of why I became a writer.

Our family was big. Our house was small. So we slept three to a bed. However, later, when we were richer, we slept three to a room. Ah, luxury! However, when you’re six years old and bumping elbows in a bed, it’s hard to sleep. So, we told stories and if the stories were good enough for giggling, there’d soon be five or six or seven of us in one bed. Stories were our nectar. We, the bees. Night after night, we went to sleep, a thicket of elbows and dirty toes, to the sounds of stories.

My dad is not a villain! And how writers write.

When I was 15, my dad left me on a wilderness island. No, he wasn’t a hand-rubbing, Bwa ha-ha! villain. He was a guy who believed that kids can do more than most people think. (By the way, he’s still that kind of guy.) So, he left me on a wilderness island for a month. I caught fish to eat. I slept in a tent. I kept an eye out for biting bears. Biting mosquitoes kept their evil compound eyes on me.

Then my dad returned. No, he hadn’t come for me. He’d come back for the boat. However, he left me with my bike, so that I could ride home: 800 miles.

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