Kristine Shields, Author


When I was maybe 5 or 6, I followed my big sisters into the back of the attic and up three rough wooden steps. They unhooked the latch on the oddly shaped door and we crawled onto the small piece of plywood that was laid upon the rafters. Rows and rows of prickly pink insulation surrounded the three of us. I knew if I accidently stepped there, I would fall through the ceiling of the room below and maybe even die. But worse, my sisters would never let me in the attic ever again. They took out their pens and I my pencil and we began to write our books.


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