Children sometimes ask, "Do you write about your own life?" I have to answer that I do not. The reason is simple: My own life is boring. Yet I would not trade it for anyone else's. I grew up in a large and loving family—parents, grandparents, and three children all under the same roof, a big white house in Portland, Oregon. At school, I was able, but not brilliant. I liked to draw. I liked to play pretend. I liked dolls, too, right through eighth grade, and only fear of what others would say made me give them up then. Most of all, I loved to read! And I dreamed of a time when, a grown-up married lady with thirteen children, I would write books. But childhood dreams have a way of getting lost. It was not until I was in my mid-thirties, after marriage, a child, divorce, and remarriage, that I was able to complete college. By then, my family included not only my daughter Beth, but my husband's daughters, Cynthia, Laurie, and Shaley. It was in college that an important thing happened. I rediscovered stories and remembered my dream of writing them. My first published book was a story for children (CIRCLE OF GIVING, 1984). Since then, our daughters have grown up. Now we have seven grandchildren. I work at home, writing. I speak at schools. I teach writing. I give speeches to teachers, librarians, and others. But most of the time, I am at home, gardening, cooking, washing, and ironing . . . and writing. I know my life sounds boring, but for me it is filled with all the adventure, excitement and drama I can find and make in books. To me it is the best kind of life!