My family and I drove to my mom's house for Mother's Day weekend. She still lives around Fargo, North Dakota, where I grew up, although not in the house where I spent my childhood. But every time I'm there, as I drive the streets where my friends lived, pass churches and schools I attended, and gaze at parks and bike trails where I played and biked, I remember. Memories wash over me, snippets of my life return, and I'm seven or seventeen all over again. It's powerful, as memories tend to be.
And it's also beautiful because I had a wonderful growing up, but I know many kids do not and have not. And this is why I write for kids. Because memories -- whether good or bad, lovely or hard, things we want to remember or things we'd rather forget -- mold us into who we are and who we are becoming. And maybe, just maybe, books can be part of the good, the lovely, and the things we want to remember. And maybe they can help heal the bad, the hard, and the things we'd rather forget.
I hope to have books out there someday that do these things.