Janice Campbell Info

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.

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. janice campbell

"I heard a heavy sigh all the way from the kitchen," Janice smiled, setting the tray down on the desk. "Writer's block?" Clara picked up her pencil