We’re proud of the books we write, but at a recent school visit, I discovered that maybe it’s not that impressive a thing after all. After all, it’s just words.
My Power Point slide show was over. The lights in the school auditorium came back on. The kids stretched their legs. I turned off the projector, and glanced at the clock. It had been only been a half hour but I was still under the spell of the past evoked by my slides – the ballet doll my Aunt Ruth sent me for Christmas that inspired my first children’s book, the farm house in Bucks County where I began to write it, the beautiful cover of Noelle of the Nutcracker.
It was time for questions and answers.
“Does your hand get tired when you color?” asked a little girl in blue leggings sitting in the front row.
“Well, actually I don’t draw the pictures for my books,” said, with a smile.
Another hand shots up.
“Do you glue the covers on?”
I shook my head.
The kids looked puzzled.
Finally a boy in the second row raised his hand.
“What exactly do you do?”
All the kids looked at me, waiting.
“I just do the writing,” I said. “Just the words.”
“Just the words?” He looked incredulous.
Just the words.