As a young child I spent Saturdays at the Sellers Memorial Library in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. It was there that I fell in love with words and decided to become a writer.

My father gave me his old black manual typewriter. The key of Z stuck. Fine. I would not write stories about zebras or zippers. My father made me a desk from orange crates. My mother filled a box with paper. And that's how I began.

In high school I nearly failed geometry. But I won fLrst prize for my poetry. A check for 50 dollars.

After high school I worked at an assortment of jobs. I was a waitress at a local diner. I was a secretary. I answered phones at an airplane factory. And in between the cracks--on the bus, on my lunch break, behind the coffee counter--I wrote.

I married. Had children. And continued to write. At the laundromat. In the grocery line. At home when the children were asleep. Long into the night I wrote. My husband, Jerry, was writing too. We encouraged each other. Shared ideas. Dreamed.

Years passed. The children grew up. Grandchildren arrived. Our writing dreams came true.

I love my writing life.

My office is on the second floor of our home. It's quite cozy. Plants at the windows. My desk, our old dining room table. A Teddy bear. Photos of my favorite people. An overstuffed chair. An electric typewriter. (No, I don't use a computer.) Sometimes I'm so eager to get to work that I don't take time to get dressed in the morning. I just run upstairs in my nightie, with a cup of tea and an idea or two.

Such was the morning I began THREE PEBBLES AND A SONG.

I looked at the trees outside my window. They were turning red and gold. I heard geese honking across the pond. I thought of how much I loved the changing of the seasons. How much I enjoyed getting ready for each one. Summer: dust the patio furniture. Spring: plant my herb garden. Fall: scour soup pot. Winter: play my Christmas cd's. I thought, too, about how important the arts are in all the seasons of my life. I thought about my playful--but unsuccessful--attempts at juggling. And I put the thoughts into words.

And it was a good day.

When I am not writing poems, stories and books for children you might find me . . .pouring tea. . . trying on hats. . . picking herbs. '. . painting in my dream journal. . . browsing in thrift shops. . . dancing barefoot. . . waiting for the mailman. . . star-watching with my husband . . . curled up with a novel. . . taking a nap on the back porch. Zzzzzzzz. ...Eileen
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