What was the one book that turned you into a reader (or writer)?
I wish I had a classic answer -- an ah-ha moment -- and could recount an early reading experience that turned me into a lifelong reader/writer. It is certainly true that I love every aspect of the written word; I even like to diagram sentences! But how and why I developed this love is a mystery. I did not become a voracious reader till I was in my twenties, and although I did study literature for a while in college, I developed an interest in Economics and wound up doing my graduate work in that field. We had few books in our home when I was young. The only picture book I recall having was a book of verse. I do have vivid memories of listening in while my father read Treasure Island to my two older bothers. I would shiver as he imitated the sound of blind Pew's walking stick as he came down the road, and I poured over N. C. Wyeth's mesmerizing illustrations.
I did not go to kindergarten; it was not mandatory at the time, so I stayed home with my mother. When I was about six, we began to bike together to our public library. I come from a small town, and the library was not far away. Soon I was allowed to go on my own, and of course I loved that. But I can't say I was a big reader as a child. I had four brothers (no sisters) to keep up with, so I was mainly an outdoors girl. Except for the long hours we spent indoors playing bridge (my mother didn't play, and as the third child I became my father's best hope for a partner, so he taught me when I was just seven), for the most part my childhood consisted of equal parts on my roller skates, on my bike, playing kick-the-can, and standing in center field on a make-shift ball field. (My brothers, who had good reason to question my fielding abilities, would shout "Just keep going...farther, farther," and there I would faithfully stand, staring at the sun and with little action coming my way.)
So, I don't have a good answer for your question. My love of language must be in my genes, scrambled and served up from some long-ago inheritance. Why, for example, did I start writing from a young age? I have no idea. Nothing big, just small accounts of some visit or adventure or mishap. I would read them to my mother, and she would read them back to me. I knew little about books for young children until I had my own children. Then I went wild, of course. Almost all the books I read to them were a first-time read for me, also. Maybe that's why I read to them so much. Many years apart, we were discovering the same great books!
I first had the idea of trying my hand at writing for children only several years ago. I was caring for my husband, who had been sick for a long time and was terribly disabled with Parkinson's Disease. As such, I was pretty much confined to the house. A friend had her first grandchild, and as a present, I wrote a little book to give her. It didn't take me long, and it wasn't too bad, so I sat down and wrote three more. I sent them out to a half-dozen publishers and a half-dozen agents, certain that they would never make their way out of the slush pile (a term I didn't even know at the time). Within two weeks, and to my total shock -- it must have been a slow day is my only explanation -- I heard back from a major publisher and from the extraordinary person who would become my agent: Kelly Sonnack at the Andrea Brown Literary Agency. I really hesitate to relate this account because of course there are so so many writers vastly more talented than myself -- and that's such an understatement! -- for whom it took a long long time to make the connection to an agent or publisher. I have no explanation other than that I just got very lucky.
About the author:
A writer, editor, and late-afternoon napper, Elizabeth McPike lives in Washington, D.C. She is the former editor of American Educator, the professional journal of the American Federation of Teachers. On a perfect day, she is likely to be found in her garden or in the remainder section of her nearby bookstore or sitting in a quiet pew by a stained-glass window.
