Janice Campbell May 2026

"I did it," Clara said breathlessly. "I wrote a story about a girl who lives in a giant tree and talks to the birds." "And how does it feel?" Janice asked.

"Good," Janice said softly. "Now open your eyes and tell me about it on the paper. Don't worry about spelling. Don't worry about being perfect. Just let the lion out of its cage and see where it runs." janice campbell

An hour later, the rain had finally stopped, and a weak beam of afternoon sunlight broke through the attic window. Clara put her pencil down and looked up at her aunt, her eyes glowing. She had filled two whole pages. "I did it," Clara said breathlessly

The rain drummed a relentless, messy rhythm against the windowpane of the attic room. For ten-year-old Clara, trapped inside on a Saturday afternoon, the grey sky felt like a heavy woolen blanket. She sighed and looked at the small wooden desk her grandmother had given her. On top sat a stack of lined paper and a single, sharp pencil. "Now open your eyes and tell me about it on the paper

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.

As she wrote, the pencil began to move faster. The blank white paper didn't look scary anymore. It looked like an open door.