Janice: Campbell
Just then, her aunt Janice stepped into the room. Janice was a teacher who loved books so much that her house was less a building and more a giant, sprawling library. She was carrying a small tray with two glasses of cold milk and a small plate of warm, gooey chocolate chip cookies.
"I heard a heavy sigh all the way from the kitchen," Janice smiled, setting the tray down on the desk. "Writer's block?" janice campbell
Clara closed her eyes. She ignored the rain and thought about last summer. She thought about the giant old avocado tree in her grandparents' backyard. She remembered climbing up into its thick, green branches where the leaves were so dense they created a secret, shaded cave. She remembered sitting up there for hours, hidden from the rest of the world, eating a peach while the juice ran down her chin. "I'm thinking of the avocado tree," Clara whispered. Just then, her aunt Janice stepped into the room
Clara picked up her pencil. She didn't try to use big, complicated words. Instead, she wrote about the rough bark of the tree against her sneakers. She wrote about the cool, green light filtering through the leaves and the sweet, sticky taste of the summer peach. "I heard a heavy sigh all the way
"I don't know any big words," Clara muttered to the empty room. "And nothing exciting ever happens in this house."
Janice picked up a cookie and broke it in half, letting the melted chocolate stretch between the pieces. "You know, Clara, a lot of people think writing is like eating a giant bowl of raw broccoli. They think it's just hard work, strict rules, and something you have to do because it's good for you. But really? Storytelling is just like these cookies." Clara tilted her head. "Cookies?"
