When I quit practicing law to write children’s books, I never planned on writing about protests.
Or suffrage.
Or the fight for inclusion.
I’d done all that before… though, in legal briefs, not illustrated rhymes.
And I genuinely wanted to leave it all behind. In fact, I thought I was leaving all that behind. After nearly two decades in the law, over half of which in the trenches of civil rights work, I wanted, I NEEDED, whimsy, lightness, and laughter—stories that felt like the best kind of childhood afternoons.
But, I suppose, you can take the girl out of the law, but you can’t quite take the law out of the girl.
When I started writing children’s books, I imagined them as joyful escapes—celebrations of the magic of childhood. On some level, it was a reconnecting with my own kids’ childhood because, when they were little, I was busy. Too busy to listen. Too busy to play. Too busy to get down on the ground with them and see the world through their eyes.
My first book, Becoming Bug, started from there. It was about what happens when parents step into their children’s worlds and play alongside them. That kind of play can spark whole new identities, open unexpected doors, and lead to places we never imagined. Instead of that type of play, my own kids got a “not today, I’m working.”
My second book, The Big Garden Gig, carried that same spirit. With a theme of finding joy in the work, the characters rolled up their sleeves to tackle chores they didn’t want to do—only to find themselves in the middle of a silly, unexpected garden party.
By book three, the ground began to shift. In The Should Sorter, Billy wants to turn into Bug and play with his sister Mary (aka Bear), but he’s weighed down by all the “shoulds” in his head. Mary turns him upside down, shakes them loose, and—just like that—the story introduced a cymbal-playing monkey, an idea my son contributed. The “not today, I’m working” that he’d been used to hearing had somehow, quietly, turned into collaboration. “Hey mom… what if this happened.”
The dismissive “not today, I’m working,” turned into a collaborative “hey mom, what if” and, from that moment, the spark of a movement was born. Kids should get to help decide what goes into books.
At that time, though, I was still firmly ensconsed in the fun and lighthearted and lets keep this silly. I created the idea of Participatory Publishing and, with it, a series of three Creativity Challenges per book: Theme Team, Word Weaver, and Sketch-Off.
I wrote The Story Shapers as a bridge between writing solo and creating alongside children. The next two books, Faye’s Foil and Painting Grace, were true co-creations.
When we launched the Theme Team contest for Book Six, the prompt was simply an image of ants cheering (an image we’d pulled from Book Two–The Big Garden Gig). The competing Theme Team Submisisons were a race between a turtle and a snail and women’s suffrage. Much to the chagrin of the lawyer I was trying to leave in the past, women’s suffrage won.
And with that, the seeds to what would become Painting Grace were planted and the former lawyer who once wanted to leave the law and write something light found herself creating an activism book—a rhyming children’s story about women’s suffrage, protest, and inclusion. And, with that, the kids brought me full circle, to a place where I really think I should be.
When women’s suffrage prevailed as the winning theme for Book Six, my instinct was to write a historical fiction book for 10-year-olds that explored why the 19th Amendment matters. But then, I recieved the winning submisisons of the Word-Weaver Winner and the Sketch-Off Winner and it opened up the story of what the world could be, should be, not what it was.
So the final book doesn’t just tell the story of the fight for the right to vote—it explored why the 19th Amendment matters, not only for what it accomplished, but also for what it did not accomplish. We talked about how winning the vote didn’t mean the work was over, how movements grow stronger when everyone’s voice can be heard, and freedom for some but not all is not freedom and is not sustainable. And, to be honest, I’d love to co-create a book with kids that explores the complexities of the other side of the issue.
With book six, my worlds collided. Now that its published and out in the world, I couldn’t be more proud of what we created, together.
This world needs fun, escapist children’s books. And, when those themes win, fun, escapist children’s books we shall write–together.
But, for me, Painting Grace opened the door up for the overwhelming need we have, in this country and beyond, for the democratization of art.
My art form (right now, anyway) happens to be rhyming picture books. But the mission is so much bigger. The misison is to put creative tools in children’s hands, to help them see their ideas take shape in the real world, and to prove that what they have to say matters.
Beyond that, the misison is to show kids–through co-creating books with them–that they have the power to use art to change the world around us. To teach kids to say what they think needs said and, more importantly, to teach them they don’t need to say what other think should be said. And, if we keep doing that, even a book that is fun and silly and wimsical will take its place as an activism book because activism can be just as much in the method as it is in the message.
We don’t need more bestsellers. We need more pathways for people—especially children—to see their voices in print, to know their perspective counts. That’s what the democratization of art looks like in action: not gatekeeping creativity and distilling the message so it is the most pallatable to the masses, but inviting many, different voices into the room, and creating ways for each of them to be heard.
Any book that avoids the traditional gatekeeping process is an activism book–and the more we support this and other small, independent artists, the more we support the democratizaiton of art, which has far-reacing impacts on how each of us see ourselves in the world.
I love all of my books, but the two co-created ones have opened doors I didn’t even know existed. They’ve shown me the path forward. And, while each additional co-created book will likely not be an activism book, per se, the creation of books in this manner is its own form of activism.
So to my Painting Grace Story Shapers: thank you. A million times, thank you. This project is still small, still growing. But you’ve laid the groundwork for something bigger. And one day, when we look back, you’ll get to say: I was one of the first. Your contribution to this activism book was so much more than simply winning a contest.
What makes a hero a hero? What makes a villain a villain? And who gets to decide?
The Story Shapers is a book about misfit ideas—bad, wild, rule-breaking, beautiful ideas. It follows Bart, a reclusive rat who locks himself in an attic, convinced his ideas are too broken to share. But everything changes when two kids, Billy and Mary, find him under crumpled pages and bad story starts.
With a little magic (and a transformation into Bug and Bear), they help Bart see that his ideas are valuable precisely because no one has written them before. It never mentions DEI or Social Justice or anything “woke.”
On its face, The Story Shapers is a playful romp through an attic of ‘bad ideas’—wild, rule-breaking concepts that don’t fit the mold. But underneath? It’s a direct invitation to explore themes like DEI in schools and woke curriculum. Why? Because under the surface, it shows kids how to practice social justice through co-creating stories.
The story ends with Bart realizing a simple truth: “The world we want needs the magic we choose.” Bug & Bear become story-shaping super-heroes, and, with that ending, the Bug & Bear Press publishing model invites kids to be story-shapers–empowing them to co-create the stories they love and the world they live in.
Justice is creative. Justice is collaborative. Justice is as simple as telling stories and letting stories be told.
But… what even makes for a good story?
Bart thinks his stories are bad because all of the characters are doing things that they’re not supposed to be doing. The ewes won’t sit in their pews. The gooses won’t stay in straight queues. The parrots won’t parrot, they’re out making news.
But Bart’s biggest struggles: the colors that are BOUND to confuse.
In Bart’s world, heroes wear violet; the villains, chartreuse. Why those colors? Well… they kind of picked themselves, to be honest.
Starting with Violet:
I’m a sucker for alliteration. I wanted a “V” color to match up with villains, so Violet won that battle. Then, Bart’s rhyming obsession meant the word had to sound like “muse.” Chartreuse was as close as I could get. So, I settled myself on violet villains and chartreuse heroes.
Then—plot twist—I learned that they’re direct opposites on the color wheel.
This deepened the metaphor I was going for so much further! It prompted Bart’s next lamentation: “‘One fuels the other,’ that’s their excuse.”
Because it’s true… right? In order for any color to exist, it necessarily has to exist across from its opposite on the color wheel. You can’t have a hero without a villain, you cannot have good without evil, you cannot have violet without chartreuse.
In a time when debates around DEI in schools, social justice, and woke curriculum dominate education policy, Bart’s color metaphor is more than poetic—it’s political.
Violet and chartreuse aren’t just colors on that stand opposite eachother on the color wheel and happen to start with V and rhyme with “muse.” They’re stand-ins for the labels we assign and the systems we defend.
So, to carry the metaphor a bit further, we mixed up the visuals. We dressed each character half in violet and half in chartreuse–mirror opposites of each other.
Another truth: each of us represents a little bit hero and a little bit villain.
It is, in fact, the human condition. No matter where you fall on the color-wheel–whehter you’re talking race, gender, religion, sexulaity, sexual orientation, or politics–you cannot exist AS YOU without our polor opposite.
It’s messy. It’s honest. And that’s the point. No one–good or bad–is purely one thing.
When I began writing Painting Grace—before that was even the title—I knew that color metaphor should be carried forward, somehow.
So I started exploring: What happens when we try to eliminate a color we don’t like?
On the RGB (red, green, blue), violet is 50% red, 50% blue, and 0% Green. Chratruse is 50% red, 50% green, and 0% blue. Neither violet heroes nor chartruse villains can exist with out red. If red won’t blend with either blue or green and its just fight to eliminate any color that’s different, then we’re left with just the red.
Keep going, and red has nothing left to fight so it turns on itself. It turns on nuance and shades of greays. You lose the ability to color anything interesting, anything real.
Just like in art, when we strip away the full palette in society—when we suppress voices, erase experiences, or pretend that messy doesn’t belong—we end up with lifeless uniformity on one end, or chaos on the other.
That’s why I love what organizations like Anti-Racist Art Teachers are doing—showing how art education can be a powerful tool for teaching kids about identity, justice, and inclusion. Their lesson plans help kids explore the full color wheel—literally and metaphorically—and that’s exactly the kind of model we need more of in classrooms today.
I’ve long had a working title for a bigger project: Crayons Before Constitutions. Like the Bug & Bear Press publishing model, it’s based on the notion that a just world is creative and collaborative; not pre-determined and hierarchical. It explores the idea that we need to flip the script and foster creativity before we demand obedience.
These concepts are why I keep coming back to color.
Color isn’t just visual—it’s metaphor. It’s inclusion. It’s rebellion. It’s identity. If we want to raise kids who build a better world, we need to teach them to be comfortable with the entire palette of ideas–even the ones they don’t like. Especially the ones they don’t like.
But, most importantly, as a concept, the need for opposites on a color wheel is accessible to kids. Colors are just that… colors. They’re fun things to paint and mix and experiement with… until grown-ups get involved and tell kids their doing it all wrong. But, if we work hard to keep the idea of the color wheel front and center in kids’ minds, maybe us grow-ups will remember a few truths as well.
Which brings me to J.K. Rowling.
I strongly disagree with her. There’s no need or sense in debating her politics here. There is space, however, to debate how we respond to those politics.
Recently, I’ve seen calls to remove her books from the shelves because of her beliefs. As much as I dislike her (and, TBH, I’ve never read the books… it’s not a genre that interests me… so I can’t speak to them beyond their wild popularity), removing her books is as wrong as removing George Takei’s books.
If you don’t like her politics, don’t make her famous. Don’t buy her books, don’t stock her books, don’t read her books. But don’t artificially restrict them from someone who might find something they need within them. That defeats the whole point of this messy world in which we live.
Book bans are the frontlines of the ‘woke curriculum’ non-sense. Who decides what’s too political, too inclusive, too uncomfortable to teach? Who decides that while a book, non-objectionable on its face, is objectionable because of the politics of the author. Gatekeeping is bad—no matter who’s doing it. Left, right, center—it’s the same result: fear dressed up as policy.
Restricting ideas is not–and will never lead to–justice. It’s fear, full stop. And when we police the ideas to which others have access because we disagree with the politics of the author, we lose the fight before it begins.
Because here’s the truth: Bad politics don’t get defeated by silencing them. They get defeated by better politics. And, indeed, the bad ones have to exist so the good ones have something to set themselves up against.
Artificially suppress one color or idea—any color or idea—and eventually the whole picture suffers.
Notice I said “artificially suppress” one color or idea. Justice cannot be achieved by tipping the scale. Justice is creative. Justice is cooperative. Justice does not artificially tip any scales.
If we want to truly model DEI in schools, we can’t just preach inclusion—we have to embody it. That means embracing discomfort. It means letting our kids engage with social justice not as a moral checkbox but as a creative act. If we are going to create justice, we have to stop artificially tipping scales. We have to, instead, create space for all voices, all stories, all colors to exist.
That’s why the color metaphor that starts in The Story Shapers and carries through Painting Grace matters—not just to the stories themselves, but to how we frame justice, social-emotional learning, and diversity in education for kids.
As Bryan Stevenson has said, “Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.” And, none of us is as good as the best thing we’ve ever done. In each of us, there is a little bit of a hero and a little bit of a villain. One cannot exist without the other.
That tension is essential to a good story. That tension is also essential to a just world.
We don’t create justice by getting rid of things that are different from us or that we don’t like.
We create justice in how we respond to those things; how we shape our story around those things.
The hero doesn’t scream and shout and demand that everyone ignore the villain. The hero shows the world how to face off against the villain, become better humans, and create a better world because of that villain.
Social justice can’t be manufactured. It can’t be engineered. It has to emerge—organically, honestly, and yes, messily. And that necessarily means allowing ideas with which we disagree. Yeah, it’s hard. Yeah, it’s uncomfortable. Yeah, it requires trust. And patience. And cooperation. And creativity.
But it’s worth it.
Seriously—pause for a minute.
Picture them in your mind. Close your eyes.
What does a book that celebrate’s female empowerment look like?
Got it? Hold that image. Now, read this rhyme from Faye’s Foil out loud with a heavy lilt of boredom in your voice. (Yes, I am asking you to read a rhyming picture book passage like you’re completely over it.)
Across the way, Bea’s standing tall.
All but sure to win it all.
The crown leans in, the quiet grows,
They know just how this story goes.
She draws her bow—her hands stay light.
She frees the string—her aim is right.
The arrow soars—a perfect flight.
It strikes the mark—dead center, tight.
A second shot, then three, then four.
Each flies just like the one before.
And there you have it. A female protagonist who has achieved perfection in her sport.
Yawn.
Because the best books with strong female leads?
They’re not about the ones who get it right.
They’re about the ones who get it wrong, who struggle, who grow, who overcome.
But perfection? Especially when it’s expected?
Yawn.
In real life, we don’t cheer the struggle—we curate the result.
We show up with the “I woke up like this” energy.
We celebrate the overnight success (that took ten years).
In real life, we expect women to show up perfect before we hold the door open for them.
The disconnect between the heroines we write about and how we treat real women is… well, disconcerting.
That poem about Bea? It’s actually one of my favorite passages I’ve ever written.
I love how it looks on the page.
I love how my voice flattens when I read it aloud.
I especially love how the kids giggle when I read it with maximum eye-roll.
Because Bea’s story doesn’t end with a trophy.
Her hero’s arc isn’t about triumph—it’s about choice.
Bea doesn’t miss. We all know women like that.
The ones who’ve mastered perfection. The ones who use it to prove they belong.
Some even hold that standard over others like a velvet rope.
“You can sit at this table… once you measure up.”
But Bea? She’s different.
For her, perfection is a tool. A choice.
A strategic arrow in her quiver.
Though they never speak in the story, Bea sees what brought Faye to the Bug-lympics—
Every little girl who was told, “Just follow the rules, and you’ll succeed.”
Bea did follow the rules. She mastered the system.
She could win, over and over again, on autopilot. Is that what we’re supposed to see as female empowerment?
Or…
Is it choosing to send one wild arrow soaring,
One that breaks formation, dips through dandelions,
And clears a path for Faye to choose a life not defined by someone else’s rules; rules that she did not have a hand in creating.
Ah, the rules.
I write rhyming picture books that celebrate authenticity, question convention, and embrace messy, magical, radical acceptance.
And sure, I’ve heard the critiques:
“The vocabulary is too advanced.”
“The themes are too big for little kids.”
Here’s what I say to that:
I have zero credentials in early childhood education.
So yes—when in doubt, trust the professionals.
But I also know that statisics show 54% of adults read at or below a 6th grade level and 1 in 5 reads below a 3rd grade level.
And I’ve watched my own kids learn “big words” simply because they wanted to.
By age four, my daughter’s go-to pep talk was:
“Sniff… sniff… be proactive.”
So no, I don’t buy the idea that kids can’t handle complexity. And, maybe the cure to the adult literacy gap is not keep kids locked into smaller “easy” words, but have them stretch those reading muscles a bit.
The rhyming picture books we created at Bug & Bear press aren’t just books for kids.
They’re bridges between generations.
They’re fun to read aloud, yes, but the themes challenge adults just as much.
In an article published in The Writer, Julie Matysik, editorial director of Running Press Kids is quoted as saying she enjoys working with children’s literature because “I put myself back into the eyesight of a younger person, which helps me to feel more grounded and gives me new perspective on how I see things as an adult.”
“I like to get back into that space where I can be a kid again.”
What if we flipped that idea?
What if we embraced the power kids have to help us see ourselves more clearly?
What if stories co-created with kids made grown-ups pause and say,
“Hey… thanks for the reminder.”
At Bug & Bear Press, we’re not just telling stories.
We’re reshaping how stories are told.
“Shaping Stories; Shaping Worlds.” That’s our guiding truth.
And if we stick to the same storytelling formula…
We’ll keep getting the same world in return.
Isn’t the definition of insanity duing the same thing and expecting different results? In fact, its such a universal truth, Einstein is often mis-quoted as having said it!
Too many books with strong female leads follow the same arc:
A woman who overcomes hardship and finally earns her place in a world built by men and for men.
The “anything you can do, I can do too” story.
And sure—we can.
But maybe the real question is: Should we want to?
Or… should we take the pen and rewrite the story altogether?
Draw the final arrow from our quiver and teach the next generation (or have them teach us) to aim not for perfection, but for possibility.
The final shot. The moment’s here.
Bea’s mind is calm. Her aim is clear.
She nocks her arrow, draws the string,
Lets it fly and hears it sing.
It soars through sunlight, swoops through shade,
Tracing ribbons being made.
It dips to greet a dandelion,
Finding magic as it’s flying.
It takes a turn that’s not allowed
And dances through a cotton cloud.
Then gently, softly, comes to land—
In a quiet spot, not quite as planned.
Not off course.
Just on her course.
Stories shape our world. But even more importantly—they shape our sense of the world. And when it comes to kids? That power is exponential.
That’s why I believe in interactive storytelling.
Not just as a trend. Not just as an activity.
But as a transformational tool for kids to see themselves as creators—not just consumers.
This isn’t theoretical for me.
It’s the core of my publishing model. And the core of my mission.
At its surface, interactive storytelling means the reader contributes to the creation of the story: making choices, influencing outcomes, or adding their voice to the plot.
But when you dig deeper, it becomes something more:
It’s a way of giving kids ownership of the narrative—both on the page, and in life.
Most “interactive” models stop at “choose your path” and then, that path was pre-determined.
Mine goes further: create the path. Shape the theme. Choose the words. Design the characters. Co-author the book. And then watch and see where it takes you.
I call this model Participatory Publishing and it changes everything.
Too often, we treat kids like they’re future thinkers.
But here’s the truth: they are current thinkers. Current builders. Current idea-generators.
The problem is—they rarely get the mic.
That’s why kids as creators is a pillar of everything I build. Through creativity challenges like Theme Team, Word Weaver, and Sketch-Off, kids submit ideas that are actually used in my books. The winners are featured in the final published work and donate 25% of the launch royalties to a cause each one of them cares about.
This isn’t make-believe.
This is real-world authorship. With real stakes. And real impact.
We hear a lot about early literacy. Phonics. Reading comprehension. All important.
But creative literacy? That’s the next level. And it might even need to start before we get to the mechanics.
Creative literacy isn’t just the ability to read. It’s the ability to imagine. To think independently. To express boldly. And to shape meaning from chaos.
It’s not about filling in blanks—it’s about making new blanks to begin with.
In a world that often pressures kids to “stay in the lines,” creative literacy is how we teach them to draw new lines entirely. And storytelling—especially interactive storytelling—is how we get there.
One of the best examples of this? A recent creativity challenge.
Two wildly different themes rose to the top:
At first glance, totally unrelated. But look again—both tap into the same core question:
Who gets to shape the story?
Whether it’s voting rights or who’s allowed to compete, these kids were asking the right questions—and shaping stories that matter.
That’s creative literacy in action.
That’s interactive storytelling at its best.
✅ It creates buy-in (when they help build it, they care more about it)
✅ It fosters confidence (their ideas matter—publicly)
✅ It builds community (they’re contributing to something larger than themselves)
✅ It develops real-world skills (creativity, critical thinking, empathy)
This isn’t just feel-good fluff. It’s the most formative kind of literacy we can offer:
The kind that shows kids their voice can shape something permanent.
Here’s how you can join the movement:
📌 Sign up for the Next Creativity Challenge.
📌 Share this post with someone who loves kids, stories, or big ideas.
📌 Join the Story Shapers mailing list. That’s where all the behind-the-scenes magic happens—and where your voice helps shape the next story.
We’re not just teaching kids how to read.
We’re teaching them how to create the world they want to read about.
Let’s take aim—and shape the future together.
That’s what I caught myself asking… myself as I absorbed the realization:.
You’ve sold everything you own.
You’ve packed the kids, the dogs, and the rats into an RV.
Your storytelling event capes are MIA.
And your perfect, on-brand green slug bug? Doesn’t fit the tow dolly. So you buy a boring gray box-on-wheels the literal day you’re supposed to leave town.
And yet?
Now. Here I am. In a campground outside West Yellowstone.
Running Facebook ads.
Booking tour stops.
Trying to remember how to regulate my nervous system.
This wasn’t the plan.
(There was no plan.)
But I’ve got stories, splinters, and a GPS that keeps yelling “recalculating.”
So I’m here to tell you what it actually takes to become a real-life living the dream gif.
The Pinterest version of a living the dream might have laminated maps and matching outfits.
I’d downsized everything I owed from a 4000 sq. ft. house into a 33 foot R.V.
What did I have? Grease up to my elbows, a broken dolly ramp, and a slug bug that was cute but useless.
Piles and piles of books. And zero capes. I really needed those capes.
This is the part where you look around at what you have left and make do.
Where you learn that the dream doesn’t start when it’s perfect.
It starts when you’re sprinting between a mobile welder and a car dealership and that little voice is whispering,
“Welp… guess we’re really doing this.”
When the car broke, I broke a little, too.
I’d quit my job.
Sold everything.
Bet on a storytelling movement I can feel in my bones—but can’t prove with data.
I’d bet my future—and my kids’—on this.
“Good moms say bad words, good moms say bad words…..” Everythings going to be okay.
And then the welder showed up.
Another vet. And through my grit and panic, he saw my purpose.
He gave me tips on where to go when I was down south, but wouldn’t take my money.
He just tipped his hat and gave me a knowing “you’ve got this.”
And right then, in a parking lot full of chaos, something welded itself back together inside me, too.
Three hours later, after we figure out how to strap the new car down, we were finally on the road.
Dillon was our first event.
We were capeless. It wasn’t pretty.
We improvised like champs.
And by the time it was over, every kid there had more books than they came with.
That’s the secret sauce. It was always meant to happen this way.
Story Shaping doesn’t follow an outline or a map. It’s a bumpy, windy road with amazing views.
It’s co-authorship in real time.
It’s handing kids a story and saying, “What do you think should happen next?”
Let Me Leave You With This:
If you’re going to live the dream, don’t expected it to be scripted.
Go without the plan.
Lean into the imperfection.
Take one small, “what if?” and run wild with all the possibilities that could come of it.
That’s your permission slip.
The world doesn’t need more polished business cards.
It needs people willing to bet on messy magic.
So, if you’re off to building something wild…
If you’re chasing a story that won’t leave you alone…
Know you’re not alone.
And if you’re near one of our stops?
Come shape the next story with us.
We’ve got capes (finally!!!).
We’ve got chaos (always).
We’ve got space for you to live the dream.
That’s not just inspiring. That’s transformational. That’s how you encourage creativity—and make it stick.
When I created Bug & Bear Press, it was never just about books. It was about agency. It was about letting kids experience what it feels like to shape something that lasts—a story, a belief, a world shaped by their voice. That’s why I built something new: a model I call Participatory Publishing. It’s messy. It’s wild. And it’s reshaping what creative collaboration can actually be.
And last week? It reminded me exactly why I’m doing this.
Over 110 votes poured in from across the U.S.—and even beyond—for our Sketch-Off Challenge. The top concepts? A black cat named Saxon. A quirky suf-FROG-ist. And a wild idea about bugs and radical freedom.
By midnight, we had a three-way tie.
The stakes? One drawing. One vote. One story that would get turned into a published book.
And that’s when it hit me: I wasn’t just watching creativity unfold—I was watching the story change me, too.
Every vote reshaped the narrative. And that’s the whole point. Because when we foster creativity through participation, we go beyond “arts and crafts.” We invite kids into authorship. Into impact. Into the kind of expression that leaves a mark.
Here’s the danger we don’t talk about enough:
Creative expression dies when it leads nowhere.
When kids create and no one listens… when they draw, write, imagine, and it vanishes into the void—that’s when it fades. Not because the spark isn’t there, but because the world doesn’t hand them the mic.
So I built a mic. I built a stage.
And kids are showing up.
Participatory Publishing creates real-world stakes. Every vote shapes the book. Every winner gets recognized in the book. And I share 25% of launch royalties with each young co-creator to donate to a school, library, or club they care about.
Because when you encourage creativity with real consequences, kids stop seeing it as just play—and start seeing it as power.
This round’s winning sketch came from a 9-year-old girl, Charleigh L.—one of the young heroes at Joy in Lake Charles, LA.
She drew women in different careers alongside bugs—because, in her words, “bugs have to hide underground when they’re not free to go where they want.”
It’s funny. It’s beautiful. It’s devastatingly true.
And in that moment, her idea didn’t just win a contest. It changed the course of a book. Of my book. That’s what happens when we foster creative expression through action. Real voices. Real votes. Real impact.
Every single day, you are co-authoring the story of this world.
Whether you’re a parent, a teacher, a librarian, or just a human trying to do better—you have the power to encourage creativity in every life you touch.
Give space for kids to express.
Give them a mechanism to matter.
Whenever possible, hand them the crayons.
And then, find ways to sustain it. Giving it roots. Let it grow. Let kids see that their wild, brilliant, messy ideas don’t disappear—they matter. They live on. In books. In classrooms. In hearts. That’s how we grow not just stories, but future storytellers.
Because this world?
We’re writing it together.
And those kids just might have the best ideas for what that story should look like!
I left a career as a civil rights trial attorney to chase the idea of building a creativity challenge community that empowers youth through storytelling.
Not because I had a polished five-year business plan. Not because I had a marketing team, a funding pipeline, or a “sure thing.”
I had an idea.
What if kids didn’t just read books—what if they helped create them?
What if storytelling became something shared—interactive storytelling built by a community of readers, writers, and illustrators, connecting with each other through stories?
I called it Participatory Publishing. It felt right in my gut. It’s heavy and clunky and breaks all the clickbait rules of something that might ‘go viral’—but I couldn’t think of better words. So, I just went with them.
But let’s be honest—when I left my job, even my own teenagers raised an eyebrow like, “Okay, Mom… but are you sure?” This week, something happened that reminded reminded me exactly why, in my gut, I couldn’t say no to this leap.
After a double-overtime extended voting round in our Book Six “Theme Team” Creativity Challenge, Women’s Suffrage emerged as the winning topic. As I noted then, a very timely choice for Women’s History Month. But, to be honest, when I started this, writing historical fiction books for 10-year-olds wasn’t on my radar at all.
But that’s the whole point, right? Its “participatory”—I’m not driving the train, these kids are, this community is.
So, with our “Women’s Suffrage” theme, we rolled into The Sketch-Off challenge—deepening the creativity challenge community we were building.
The prompt was: Submit a drawing of anything that reminds you of the women’s suffrage movement.
It could be a protest sign.
A suffragette hat.
A bicycle.
Did you know that Susan B. Anthony once said the bicycle had “done more to emancipate women than anything else in the world.”
We’d completed one round of Creativity Challenges before and, with each round, got only a handful of entries. This time, though, an inbox explosion.
Twenty-one sketches. From a single studio in a school that does things a little bit differently. Each one thoughtful. Bold. Bursting with creativity and opportunity.
The magic came from Mrs. Erin-Beth Carter, Co-founder & Head of School at Joy, an Acton Academy in Lake Charles, Louisiana.
A friend mentioned our project to her. She didn’t just say, “Sounds cool.” She turned around, handed the whole challenge to her class, and said: “This is yours now.”
At Joy, students are called heroes—and wow, did they live up to the name. They didn’t hold back. They didn’t wait for permission. They took the sketchbook and ran.
What Mrs. Carter and these heroes at Joy did is exactly how we set out to empower youth with interactive storytelling. This is Participatory Publishing in real life. A teen in Idaho submits a theme. A school in Louisiana brings it to life. A book starts to take shape—not as a top-down project, but as a story co-authored by kids from the inside out.
We’re living in a moment when creative programs are under threat. Books are being challenged. Teachers are stretched thin.
And yet—here are these kids, showing up. Creating. Here are these educators, saying yes to something new. Showing kids the power of their voices.
That’s the heartbeat of this work. We can’t control the systems breaking down. But we can build something better in their place. We can trust kids with the mic, the pen, the brush—and watch them shape the world we all live in.
This class reminded me that agency starts early. That creativity is power. That stories aren’t just told—they’re lived, shared, and rewritten through interactive storytelling experiences that start with kids.
Book 6 is underway.
Illustrations from Joy’s Discovery heroes will be part of the creative foundation.
More sketch-offs, writing challenges, and kid-powered ideas are coming—with the Book Six Word Weaver Creativity Challenge coming up next.
Because when young people see the voices of people they know reflected on the page, something shifts.
They stop waiting to be invited into the story—they realize they’ve had the power to shape it all along. That’s how we empower youth.
And that’s exactly the kind of world I want to help build.
They’ve done it again! The heroes at Joy Lake Charles didn’t just show up once—they came back swinging.
The winners of BOTH our Book 6 Sketch-Off and Word Weaver challenge came from this powerhouse creativity challenge community. That’s not a coincidence. That’s what happens when a school leans into interactive storytelling and trusts kids to lead the creative charge.
After a very close, intense round of voting, nine-year-old Charleigh L. took the spotlight in our Sketch-Off with a bold, symbolic drawing of women and bugs—a visual metaphor for perseverance, unseen power, and the quiet strength that moves history forward. Her sketch didn’t just earn votes—it became the visual anchor for an entire book.
Then came the Word Weaver Challenge, and Bray W., age ten, dropped a line of verse that stopped voters in their tracks:
“Rise women, love your place. Always find your saving grace.”
Simple. Poetic. Powerful. This is what it looks like when we empower youth to use their voices and shape stories that matter.
These weren’t adult-led lessons. They were student-driven ideas—rooted in real thought, real emotion, and real agency.
And here’s the kicker: both winners came from the same class. The same teacher. The same belief in kids. That’s not just participation. That’s a movement in action.
This is the kind of momentum that fuels our vision for participatory publishing. It’s not theoretical. It’s happening. Right now. One challenge, one classroom, one powerful voice at a time.
Book Six will be released on August 1st. If you haven’t already, make sure to mark your calendars!
“You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.”
— Kahlil Gibran
Ever read a quote about parenthood that felt like your soul just exhaled?
That quote? It hit me right in the chest. Because as a parent it speaks the loudest truth:
We are not just raising children. We are launching them.
In fact, that quote about parenthood inspired this post. It also showed up as I was deep in research for the theme of our next book which, of course, came from our last Creativity Challenge: Archery. You see, I don’t know what I’m going to write the next book about. The kids decide. Seriously. I call it Participatory Publishing. They help shape the stories, earn real money for the causes they care about, and—without even knowing it—get a firsthand masterclass in agency, authorship, and courage.
Let’s unpack the bow, the arrow, and the wild ride in between.
Parenting is a lot like archery.
Sometimes you feel pulled so far back you wonder if you’ll ever launch forward.
Sometimes you miss the target.
And sometimes, you realize the point wasn’t the bullseye—it was the aim.
But that’s the gig. Our job as parents isn’t to control the direction. It’s to give them the strength and flexibility of a solid bow—and then let go.
And when we do that intentionally? We empower youth. We create story-shapers. We build the next generation of confident, curious creators who are not only ready to take their own shot, but to decide for themselves the direction in which they should aim.
And that takes practice. It takes trust. And it takes models of leadership where youth don’t just watch—they participate. They contribute. And they see, in real-time, the effect their words and ideas can have on something real.
When they feel seen, when they see their names printed in a real book, something transformational happens: they don’t just read differently—they think differently. They carry that agency with them.
This all started because I didn’t want to just write stories for kids. I wanted to build a model where kids co-create them—with real input, real recognition, and real impact.
Every book I publish includes three Creativity Challenges:
Theme Team — pick the concept
Word Weaver — shape the dialogue
Sketch-Off — design the visuals
Winners get 25% of launch royalties to donate to the school, library, or club of their choice. And they get featured in every book’s Story Shapers Spotlight.
Because when kids see their ideas on a printed page, something clicks:
“I matter.”
“My ideas have power.”
“I’m not just reading the story—I’m shaping it.”
And if that’s not the definition of empowering youth, I don’t know what is.
That Gibran quote? It’s not just poetic—it’s strategic. It reminds us that our job isn’t to steer our children’s path. It’s to build strong, steady bows that can handle the tension and still fire straight.
Whether it’s parenting, publishing, or just living in community, we’re all part of one larger creative ecosystem. And the more we hand off the pen, the more empowered their story becomes.
Parenthood, like authorship, is collaborative. It’s imperfect. It’s a series of rewrites. And if we do it right, the next generation doesn’t just inherit our stories—they write their own.
📌 Vote in this week’s Creativity Challenge. Seriously—it takes 30 seconds.
📌 Share this blog with someone who cares about empowering youth and storytelling that means something.
📌 Reflect on your own quote about parenthood. What metaphor hits you the hardest? Share it in the comments.
Together, let’s raise our bows, aim high, and launch arrows that fly farther than we ever imagined.
Let’s shape the story. Together.
Some days, more than others, are a wake up call in how to write your life story. Yesterday was one of those full-circle days. The kind of day that knocks the wind out of you and fills your lungs all at once.
It marked the 20th anniversary of my dad’s death. It was also my nephew’s 21st birthday—the only grandchild my dad ever knew. Yes. Your math is right: dad died on his oldest grandson’s first birthday.
We gathered and celebrated both of their lives.
And, as we were leaving, we got word that just 40 minutes down the road, we had to say goodbye to another dear family member.
After the long drive home from Boise, through and across the east Idaho desert, I came home emotionally tangled.
Sitting at my desk–no, staring at my desk–I instinctively looked for the framed quote that my sister bought me years and years ago.
“Take the time to write your own life’s story.”
Only I couldn’t find it. It was always on my desk.
I tore through bookshelves, drawers, boxes packed since I left my corporate law office. Nothing. And then—buried beneath a pile of papers I’d been meaning to sort for months (okay, years)—there it was.
The irony hit me square in the chest.
How many of us do this?
We bury the truth we say we’ll “get to someday.”
We delay the life we mean to live.
We postpone writing our story because we’re waiting for a cleaner desk, a better time, or someone else to give us permission.
But here’s what I’ve learned:
There is no better time.
The time to write your life story is now.
The systems most of us were raised to trust—corporate ladders, retirement plans, social contracts—taught us this:
“Follow the rules now so you can finally live later.”
But what happens when later doesn’t come?
What if, at 52 or 85, you realize that you’ve got more stories to make then the years allow? What if the version of you who played by all the rules doesn’t even like the game you’re “winning”?
That was me. I spent nearly 20 years as a civil rights attorney.
And when I finally stepped away, I didn’t buy a convertible or fly to Bali.
I started something wild and weird and world-shaping.
I created Participatory Publishing—a way for kids to co-create books alongside me and see that their voice matters. Not later. Now.
People ask this all the time:
“How do you write a biography of yourself?”
“Who do you write your life story for?”
“How do I even start?”
And here’s what I’ve found:
You start first, by living that life.
And if it involves sitting in a windowless office for 9+ hours a day, you’re probably not doing that.
And then, you let go of the idea that it has to be polished, perfect, or even get published. It just has to resonate with the most important audience. You.
You write your life story every time you tell your truth.
You write it when you choose your own voice over someone else’s expectations.
You write it by living it—and then spin that living into words. Even if, as Jimmy Buffett said, those words amount to only a “semi-true story.”
But I think the best stories, aren’t written alone.
I’m not building a storytelling model about personal narratives. My model is about shared authorship. How what we put into the world shapes the stories of those around us. Sometimes in ways we couldn’t expect. Sometimes in ways we did not know. Always in ways that mean we matter to those around us.
Because right now? We don’t need another top-down tale written by publishing gatekeepers who will tell you your story is not good enough and send you back to the office.
We need stories told by real people—kids, parents, teachers, artists, dreamers. Voices that have been silenced or sidelined for far too long.
We need books that are built together, across race, gender, income, identity, and generation. Stories shaped by the people living them, not just the ones approved to tell them.
That’s what Participatory Publishing is. It’s not just how I’m writing my life story—it’s how I’m inviting others to write theirs, too.
Since it’s quote day, here is another one I love:
“The barn’s burnt down. Now I can see the stars.”
Sometimes, we hold onto systems, titles, and structures simply because they’ve always existed. Even when they no longer serve us. Even when they never did.
But when those burn down?
That’s your chance.
That’s your blank page.
That’s your moment to build something new—for yourself and for the people coming up behind you.
So I’ll ask:
What story do you need to tell?
What systems are you ready to let go of?
What stars are just now becoming visible?
If you want a place to begin, start with this:
This week’s Theme Team Challenge is open. Submit your story idea—the one you believe the world most needs to hear. Let it be messy, bold, half-formed, or crystal clear.
Just don’t wait.
Drop your ideas in the comments.
Share this post with someone still waiting for permission.
And remember: you don’t need a midlife crisis car to start over.
You just need to start writing.
Because the time to write your story isn’t “someday.”
It’s now.
Drop a comment if you’ve felt the tug to finally write your truth.
Join the newsletter for future contests and co-creation invites.
Tell me—what’s the story you wish someone had written with you?
When I left a nearly 20-year career as a civil rights lawyer, I didn’t pause to Google:
“Is self publishing on Amazon worth it?” and I didn’t stop on the “Why self-publishing is bad” story I came across.
I probably should’ve. But I didn’t.
Because I wasn’t trying to build a book business. I was trying to start a storytelling movement—one where kids don’t just read the story, but help create it.
So no, I didn’t run a cost-benefit analysis or worry about the KDP algorithm. I followed the gut punch that said:
“If kids are going to shape the future, they need to practice shaping stories.”
It’s been four weeks.
And in just 28 days, I’ve learned more about publishing than any YouTube course or Facebook group could teach me.
Let’s be real. Self-publishing can be a mess.
Amazon controls the pricing, the shelf space, and the discoverability.
You’re one of millions trying to game an algorithm instead of serve a reader.
The market’s flooded with AI-generated junk that clogs every search bar.
If you’re publishing just to “get a book out there,” then yeah—self-publishing might break your spirit a little.
But what if the point isn’t just publishing?
What if it’s participation?
I didn’t want to fight for scraps on a digital bookshelf. I wanted to build something kids could co-create.
I call it Participatory Publishing—and in the past month, it’s gone from vision to traction.
Here’s what we’ve done in 4 weeks:
✅ Launched Book 3: The Should Sorter
A story that shows kids how to drop all the ‘shoulds’ that don’t serve who they really are. It launched on Feb 28, 2025—the same day as the corporate blackout protests. Perfect timing to realize: yeah, maybe Amazon shouldn’t be our only outlet.
✅ Ran Our First Creativity Contests
We kicked off three contests where kids shaped the concept (Theme Team), the language (Word Weaver), and the visuals (Sketch-Off) of the next book. Real kids. Real input. Real recognition.
✅ Started Production on Book 4: Story Shapers
This one flips the lens back on traditional publishing itself. It’s weird, wild, a little irreverent, and 100% kid-powered. Spoiler: the moose got tattoos.
✅ Began Writing Book 5—Our First Fully Co-Created Book
Book 5 is being shaped entirely by the winning entries from the creativity challenges. These kids don’t know each other—but they’re building something together. And that? That’s the point.
When people ask “Is self-publishing on Amazon worth it?”, they’re usually asking:
Will I make money?
Will anyone find my book?
Will this be legit?
But they’re asking the wrong questions.
Here’s what I wish more people asked:
What kind of stories do I want to bring into the world?
Who do I want to shape those stories with?
What legacy do I want to leave behind in print?
Because if the goal is just to hit publish, you’ll burn out fast.
But if the goal is to empower kids, build creative confidence, and tell stories that actually say something?
Then self-publishing isn’t the endgame—it’s just the printig press.
In the most ironic of ironies… Bezos recently announced that The Washington Post would start aligning its editorial content with his business interests.
That’s not news. That’s narrative control.
And you better believe the same thing happens in children’s publishing—sanitized stories that sell well but say nothing.
We don’t need more Frosted Flakes books.
We need whole stories. Substance. Soul.
Participatory Publishing gives kids a seat at the storytelling table. They’re not just reading the story. They’re shaping it.
At the 2025 Academy Awards, an independent film took Best Picture. On stage, the filmmakers said:
“Tell the stories that move you.”
“We need more. This is proof.”
I replaced the word “film” with “book.” And I knew—this is exactly what we’re doing.
This is more than a publishing experiment. It’s a proof of concept for something bigger.
Book 4 is coming soon—Story Shapers is all about busting the gate wide open.
Book 5 is deep in co-creation mode, built from the voices of the community.
New Creativity Contests are launching soon—your kids can help shape the next one.
Drop a ✍️ in the comments if you believe kids should help create the stories they read.
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Tell me: What book do you wish existed when you were a kid?
Let’s build it. Together.
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