Susan Wood

"The Babbling Brook." Third grade, eight lines. First prize in a school-district-wide poetry contest.My little ode to a runoff creek that ran through our Northern California subdivision was published in a paperback compilation of schoolkids' poems, plus posted under glass in my city's central library, blue ribbon attached, for all to see.I was hooked.Writing was fun to do, like stringing beads or working a puzzle, each word carefully chosen and placed just so. And now it could earn me the admiration of my peers, the approval of teachers and parents, and a niche to call my own. As the eternal new kid—Dad's climb up the corporate ladder kept us moving every couple of years—I was always struggling to fit in. Writing helped me find my place.In

"The Babbling Brook." Third grade, eight lines. First prize in a school-district-wide poetry contest.My little ode to a runoff creek that ran through our Northern California subdivision was published in a paperback compilation of schoolkids' poems, plus posted under glass in my city's central library, blue ribbon attached, for all to see.I was hooked.Writing was fun to do, like stringing beads or working a puzzle, each word carefully chosen and placed just so. And now it could earn me the admiration of my peers, the approval of teachers and parents, and a niche to call my own. As the eternal new kid—Dad's climb up the corporate ladder kept us moving every couple of years—I was always struggling to fit in. Writing helped me find my place.In