Balancing Act
Where towers of books teeter, cats reign supreme, and stories demand to be written
At his home in Mendocino, Dowdy Pickles receives me in his library at the bottom of the garden upon condition of anonymity. (Privacy was the only absolute in his agreeing to see me.) The room is crowded with towers of books, balanced in improbable stacks that seem always on the verge of collapse. The author is already in conversation with his cat, Muse, who blinks at him from the summit of a leaning pile. “If you insist on sitting there, Muse, at least have the decency to look like a paperweight.”
Q: It’s strange, I’m a grown man, but sitting here, I feel like a little kid. Can I ask why you write for children?
A: I delight in the little things, like the way apricot jam finds the thumbprint of this biscuit. Children notice instinctively. Adults forget.
Q: So, does that mean you think of yourself as a children’s writer, or something else?
A: Labels are for jars, not people. I write what amuses me. If children enjoy it, marvelous. If adults read over their shoulder and laugh, all the better. Everyone is welcome.
Q: And the writing itself—do the stories come easily?
A: Never. They arrive like uninvited guests: at inconvenient hours, wearing muddy boots, demanding supper. But once they’re in the house, they rearrange the furniture, borrow your slippers, and refuse to leave until you’ve written them down.
Q: What advice would you give to someone just starting to write?
A: Don’t wait for inspiration—it’s as unreliable as a late train. Sit down, sharpen your pencil, and begin. A bad page can be mended; a blank one cannot.
