First, I love kids. I love to hear them say they “can’t” write and then show them that they really can, even though it never gets easy. I love to see their surprise when they realize they’re enjoying a book that was written in the 19th century, set in the 18th century. I love it when a parent emails me and tells me that she’s afraid her son won’t be able to get through the book he’s chosen for his book report; and I tell her to sit back and watch him triumph over what he (and she) thinks is impossible; and she does; and he does.

Second, I love words. Put them in poetry, prose, essays, or transcendent, brilliant books like To Kill a Mockingbird, Gilead, Peace Like a River, Light in August or even The Velveteen Rabbit. I don’t care where I find them, read them, hear them, or write them, I love words. There is nothing quite like the feeling of finding precisely the right word. Unless it’s reading someone else’s precisely-right words. Words can be brusque, brutal, harsh, cruel. They can soothe, comfort, heal, inspire. Some words are inherently hilarious. Like flibbertigibbet. Come on, you know you just laughed.