When kids (and adults) ask me where I get the ideas for my stories, I tell them that I keep a notebook with me. Always.
In the notebook, I write down what I see and what I overhear.
I write down character names that pop into my head.
I write down images that haunt me.
Yesterday, when I got to the hotel in D.C., I realized I didn’t have my notebook.
I panicked.
Long story short: I found the notebook buried in my luggage.
But for the few hours that it was missing, I learned just how much I needed it, how much that notebook defines me.
Who am I?
I am the person who writes things down.

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