One way or another a good story punches the gut, grabs the heart, or rattles the brain. And the stories I love give me courage as well. Oh, for those great moments when I read a scene and think–wow, this writer doesn’t care what her friends think, what his family worries about, what the critics approve of; this writer had an idea and charged ahead without fear. Brilliant!

This reminds me of when I was a kid and some troublemaker in class would talk back to the teacher. I thought the kid was foolish and rude and not someone I’d hang out with, but I was also jealous. Hey, she yelled at a grown up! I so wanted to know where that courage came from. Sometimes even now I think true brave writing is talking back to the grown ups and saying you can’t tell me what to do or what to think. It isn’t easy and it still makes my stomach twist most days. My fingers hover over the keyboard and that little schoolgirl voice echoes in my head–whatever will my friends think? Gosh, aren’t I a nice person, a good kid?

Um, no. Plenty of times I’m not. But I’m getting braver all the time.