Lindsey P. Brackett
Every year about this time, I get nostalgic. Not for evergreen boughs and red bows, sugar cookies and candy canes. Instead, I’m remembering the year my parents slipped a book with a yellow cover under the Christmas tree. A paperback with pencil illustrations and simple words about a little family in a little house in the Big Woods. When asked how I knew I wanted to be a writer, I show them those now tattered paperbacks. I knew because I sincerely believed that if Laura Ingalls could write stories about her family, then so could I.
Not to mention, the world of Laura’s prairies and long winters made me feel safe and secure. Though I realize now, as an adult, how little security her life really held. But under the influence of her stories, I found myself always gravitating toward novels that give me that same sense of contentment.
