Even before I could read or write, I was a storyteller. My earliest memory is around the age of two or three, sitting under the kitchen table pretending the chair and table legs were trees, and that I was lost in a forest. I lived in Brooklyn, New York, a place which was magical to many writers, then and now. I was sure there was a witch living in a crumbling house on our block, that I'd meet a ghost in the graveyard of the Old Dutch Church, and that someday the perfect dog would follow me home. We lived in a tiny apartment, but I had the library, the Brooklyn Museum, the Botanical Gardens, and Prospect Park to roam in. Life was always an adventure. I think that's why I write for young readers.