I was a kid who loved to read, but I didn’t dream of becoming a writer.
Books seemed so magical to me that I couldn’t conceive that human beings wrote them.
For my 60th birthday, my friend Ann (who is also a writer) gave me the gift of a signed school library copy of E.B. White’s Charlotte’s Web.
The book is battered, water-stained, beloved.
E.B. White’s signature is humble and unassuming.
Taken altogether what this gift gives me is a gentle reminder that writing books is done by humans for humans.
It is a way for us to connect.
Thank you, readers.
Thank you, Ann.
And thank you, E.B. White.
Some writers, indeed.

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