Margaret Meacham

I grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, a city of bridges, steep hills and steel mills. We lived on a hill and we had a big old Buckeye tree (also known as a horse chestnut tree) in our backyard. As a child I spent a lot of time up in that tree, looking out over the neighborhood, pretending, making believe, imagining and dreaming.

Today, as a children’s writer, I visit schools regularly to talk to the kids about books and writing. Invariably the kids ask, “What made you decide to be a writer?” I like to them that I decided I wanted to be a writer way back when I was in second grade.

I had a very strict teacher that year. Her name was Mrs. Gray, and she had gray hair, wore a lot of gray clothing, and was sort of gray all over, at least as I remember her. She put a lot of stock into perfect handwriting and perfect spelling, and since I had then, and still have, in spite of Mrs. Gray’s best efforts, horrendous handwriting and terrible spelling skills, second grade was not a good year for me. I can still remember the way her smile would turn into a grim frown when she corrected my papers, and the shivery twinge of fear I felt when she looked down at me. I much preferred my Buckeye tree to the classroom, but there was one thing that strict teacher did that helped. At the end of the day she would tell up to put everything away, to fold our hands, and to listen. And then she would read to us.

As I listened to the stories she read, I was transported out of the class room, on to the farm with Fern and Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web, or into C. S. Lewis’s Narnia. I thought then how wonderful it would be to be able to create characters who seemed as real to me as the kids sitting right next to me, and what a miracle it was that these authors could create whole worlds with nothing more than little black marks on a piece of white paper.

It seemed like a miracle to me then, and today, after more than two decades of writing, it still does.

I live now in Brooklandville, Maryland, a small town just north of Baltimore, with my husband, John, a good- natured man who doesn’t seem to mind my piles of books and papers, or the vacant stare I sometimes give him when I’m lost in a story. We have three children, Pete, 26, Jen, 23, and Katy, 19, all of whom have brought us unimaginable joy as well as large helpings of anxiety, pride, worry, hope, fear, and of course, countless ideas for stories. We have two dogs, a Border Collie named Panda, and an Australian Shepard named Sachem. Panda often keeps me company in my office, but Sachem has doggie ADHD, and so is banished. We also have an ancient cat named Charlie who looks everyday of his 21 years.

I still live on a hill, but instead of doing my dreaming and imaging in a Buckeye tree, nowadays I do in my office in front of my computer, and when I’m lucky, my imaginings turn into stories, which I hope will help another child somewhere to survive second grade.



• Just out From Holiday House Publishers -A Fairy's Guide to Understanding Humans! • Just Released From Scholastic Publishers! A Mid-Semester Night’s Dream--Scholastic School Paperback Edition •	I grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, a city of bridges, steep hills and steel mills. We lived on a hill and we had a big old Buckeye tree (also known as a horse chestnut tree) in our backyard. As a child I spent a lot of time up in that tree, looking out over the neighborhood, pretending, making believe, imagining and dreaming. Today, as a children’s writer, I visit schools regularly to talk to the kids about books and writing. Invariably the kids ask, “What made you decide to be a writer?” I like to them that I decided I wanted to be a writer way back when I was in second grade. I had a very strict teacher that year. Her name was Mrs. Gray, and she had gray hair, wore a lot of gray clothing, and was sort of gray all over, at least as I remember her. She put a lot of stock into perfect handwriting and perfect spelling, and since I had then, and still have, in spite of Mrs. Gray’s best efforts, horrendous handwriting and terrible spelling skills, second grade was not a good year for me. I can still remember the way her smile would turn into a grim frown when she corrected my papers, and the shivery twinge of fear I felt when she looked down at me. I much preferred my Buckeye tree to the classroom, but there was one thing that strict teacher did that helped. At the end of the day she would tell up to put everything away, to fold our hands, and to listen. And then she would read to us. As I listened to the stories she read, I was transported out of the class room, on to the farm with Fern and Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web, or into C. S. Lewis’s Narnia. I thought then how wonderful it would be to be able to create characters who seemed as real to me as the kids sitting right next to me, and what a miracle it was that these authors could create whole worlds with nothing more than little black marks on a piece of white paper. It seemed like a miracle to me then, and today, after more than two decades of writing, it still does. I live now in Brooklandville, Maryland, a small town just north of Baltimore, with my husband, John, a good- natured man who doesn’t seem to mind my piles of books and papers, or the vacant stare I sometimes give him when I’m lost in a story. We have three children, Pete, 26, Jen, 23, and Katy, 19, all of whom have brought us unimaginable joy as well as large helpings of anxiety, pride, worry, hope, fear, and of course, countless ideas for stories. We have two dogs, a Border Collie named Panda, and an Australian Shepard named Sachem. Panda often keeps me company in my office, but Sachem has doggie ADHD, and so is banished. We also have an ancient cat named Charlie who looks everyday of his 21 years. I still live on a hill, but instead of doing my dreaming and imaging in a Buckeye tree, nowadays I do in my office in front of my computer, and when I’m lucky, my imaginings turn into stories, which I hope will help another child somewhere to survive second grade.