Author, Tree Street Kids
I just barely remember my first walk in the woods. My grandmother took me. Maybe it was in the patch of forest across the street from her square little house with the wringer washer and the beagle who ate locusts.
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Welcome to our new YouTube channels with a read-aloud of chapter 1 from Jack vs. the Tornado!
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Amanda Cleary Eastep I don’t recall how old I was when I realized Aslan the lion was an author’s fantastical version of Jesus. I had been raised in church and Sunday school, so although this connection should have been obvious, it didn’t quite dawn on me. But once it did . . . I felt […]
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By Amanda Cleary Eastep For the book announcement, skip down the page to The Third Tornado! The First Tornado “Is this a war?” That’s what I remember thinking when it happened. We were driving back from a family reunion on a long stretch of road that cut through Midwest corn fields . . . acre […]
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The frustrated photojournalist in me couldn’t resist the scene … what else could I do but hide behind a rack of something that smelled like a hamper and covertly take his photo?
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My father had watched the rabbit’s nest for days and didn’t see the mother return. Still heartbroken over the event and not realizing then that the mother was probably caring for the remaining babies early in the morning, he decided we needed to rescue them…
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As much as I hate the “tell us your name and something about you” exercise, I planned for this time of introduction with teen writers to be a little more creative . . .
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There is a scent. Sometimes it makes me sneeze.
The smell of books:
One like a door closed on a dusty attic that, when opened, overwhelms you with its secrets and want of discovery…
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All the seconds run together now, and clocks don’t seem to matter much. Maybe they never did in a place where time and work and rest were measured more by when the rooster crowed and the sun set . . . when the rain came or didn’t and the first frost threatened.
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The man made a beeline for me.
I, and a few authors, had just finished leading a discussion about the importance of the voices of “midlife” writers.
This particular writer, who had been in the audience, almost seem dazed–eyes glassy, lips parted as if what he needed to verbalize hadn’t fully formed yet and was resting between them.
Then…
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Amanda Cleary Eastep 