Jean Van Leeuwen

When I was a child, I was seldom found without a book in my hand. I remember lying in bed late at night with a book hidden under the covers, finishing just one more chapter by flashlight. I remember constantly trying to read in the car, even though I got carsick every time. I remember going to the library of my small New Jersey town and coming home with tall stacks of books enough, I hoped, to get me through the long, lazy summer days. And I remember systematically reading my way through the children s room of that library by category: all the dog stories, all the horse stories, all the mysteries.

By the time I was in sixth grade, I felt as if I had read just about every children s book in our local library. The next step seemed easy enough to me. I would write my own book. It would be about a girl and her horse, kind of a modern Black Beauty. With a clean notebook, sharpened pencils, and high hopes, I set to work. But writing turned out to be more difficult than it looked. I had Read More chevron_right