Clara picked up her pencil. She didn't try to use big, complicated words. Instead, she wrote about the rough bark of the tree against her sneakers. She wrote about the cool, green light filtering through the leaves and the sweet, sticky taste of the summer peach.
As she wrote, the pencil began to move faster. The blank white paper didn't look scary anymore. It looked like an open door.
Clara nodded gloomily. "I want to write something wonderful, Aunt Janice. Something like the books you have downstairs. But I'm just a kid. I don't know how to make words dance." janice campbell
An hour later, the rain had finally stopped, and a weak beam of afternoon sunlight broke through the attic window. Clara put her pencil down and looked up at her aunt, her eyes glowing. She had filled two whole pages.
"I did it," Clara said breathlessly. "I wrote a story about a girl who lives in a giant tree and talks to the birds." "And how does it feel?" Janice asked. Clara picked up her pencil
Clara wanted to write a story, but her mind felt as blank as the page before her.
Janice picked up a cookie and broke it in half, letting the melted chocolate stretch between the pieces. "You know, Clara, a lot of people think writing is like eating a giant bowl of raw broccoli. They think it's just hard work, strict rules, and something you have to do because it's good for you. But really? Storytelling is just like these cookies." Clara tilted her head. "Cookies?" She wrote about the cool, green light filtering
Janice reached over and tapped Clara’s blank paper. "Close your eyes. Don't think about writing a masterpiece. Just think about a memory that feels like a cookie."