PO Box 3413
Wellington 6015
New Zealand

17 March 2006


Dear Friends,

A writer has an exciting life. Sitting in a chair with a pen, typewriter or computer may not look exciting; but there's usually a tornado of excitement going on in the writer's head. Young writers especially know about the adventures to be had in the country of the mind. Every week my mail brings me stories and letters from young writers who let me share the adventures of their marvellous imaginations, and when I read them I give a little sigh of happiness.

These fantastic stories remind me of my own childhood when four little girls had made-up story adventures every night. We all slept in the same room, my younger sisters Joan, Heather Barbara and myself, and if it was a cold night, we snuggled into one bed. I was the storyteller and they were my audience. I knew how to make them shiver, squeal, hold their breath, or laugh, and although the stories came from my imagination, I got the ideas mostly from books or movies. The stories were long serials about a family of children like us, who took great risks and were always powerful, always winners.

Since our daily family life was quite difficult, we greatly relished remaking it in stories. But I have a confession to make. My sisters may have thought me a good story-teller but I was not always a good sister. Sometimes I told stories for profit. No, not money. None of us had any money. But I could ask Heather to clean my shoes or demand that Joan take my turn doing the dishes. If they protested I would leave one of the favourite characters trapped in a burning house or dangling over the jaws of a crocodile. My sisters, now in their sixties, remind me of those times. Extortion, they call it. Whatever, those tricks would not work now. Can you imagine me telling a publisher, "Send me some free books or I'll kill Mrs Wishy-Washy!"

I am reminded of early story days because I've just had a lovely holiday with my sisters. When we get together we always talk about our childhood, and those stories come up. I'm also reminded of letters I get, in which people ask, "When did you begin writing?" or "When did you decide to become an author?" These are precise questions that have blurry answers. The fact is, authors are not a special breed. We are all authors. We all have stories within us. I see pre-school children who can tell wonderful stories and rhymes. Here is an example of a "poem" made up by a girl aged three and a half, who was eating her lunch. "Cheesy-weezy, bready-weddy. Eat it up. All gone, deady-weddy."

I believe that story-making and an interest in the quirky sounds of language are natural to all young children, but as we grow, life and learning get serious and some of us forget that rich area of the country of mind. Thanks to my sisters, the story-maker in me stayed alive and well, and developed into a writer who still endeavours to empower children through story. To answer the question, "When did you decide to become an author?" the answer is, I didn't. It just happened without decision. As for "When did you begin writing?" I suppose it was when I was nine or ten and we lay in the dark, frost on the windows, scaring ourselves silly with tales of mummy ghosts and witches who had false teeth made of saw blades, for gobbling up children.

Occasionally I get a letter from someone near my present age, who is going to retire and wants to write a book for young children. Can I give any advice about publishers and contracts? The best advice I can offer them, is to re-discover their inner child, to get in touch once again with the three year old's sense of wonder, the five year old's love of the sounds of language, the six year old's sense of humour, the eight year old's thirst for adventure, the twelve year old's dreams. I believe that knowing our own inner story-making child is the starting point in writing for children. If the story is authentic, the rest will follow.

To all those young authors who send me wonderful tales of magic and mayhem, I would say, please, please, keep writing. Don't let the elephant of serious work, sit on your beautiful imagination and squash it.

With love to you all,


Joy Cowley




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Previous Letters

letter 17 - 14 May 2008
letter 16 - 16 April 2008
letter 15 - 26 September 2007
letter 14 - 17 May 2007
letter 13 - 17 February 2007
letter 12 - 17 March 2006
letter 11 - 5 September 2005
letter 10 - 4 August 2004
letter 9 - 25 April 2004
letter 8 - 3 December 2003
letter 7 - 17 August 2003
letter 6 - 1 February 2003
letter 5 - 21 October 2002
letter 4 - 1 May 2002
letter 3 - 12 December 2001
letter 2 - October 2001
letter 1 - March 2001


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last update 1 September 2008