Descending into the depths of art as a vocation is like wanting to breathe and not always being able to do it. A writer’s oxygen is made up of words and manufactured souls. Story is a living, writhing thing and if only we could inhale its essence and exhale it into the world so that others might breathe, so then may we truly live.
I find myself at a bit of a loss for words -- which is really saying something for me -- when it comes to talking about this book project, Poor Girl, Poor World, a story about a little girl on the spectrum. I don’t consider myself a children’s writer, but I’m trying to respect the craft enough to go where creativity leads me. I am but a vessel (and a rusty one at that) for the movement of ideas. And the idea for Poor Girl, Poor World came to me in the shower -- as most good ones do -- on a rare occasion when I was not also being monitored my multiple tiny humans screaming at me or trying...
