I was raised by a band of wild gypsies who played music day and night but didn’t know how to read or write. I taught myself how to read so I could read menus. I love restaurants. And I taught myself how to write so I could make books. I learned how to draw when my gypsy family visited a museum and left me there. I ate leftover french fries and slept in the broom closet at night and copied my favorite paintings during the day. I lived in the museum until I was old enough to make children’s books and buy a real house. My only hobby is seeing how long I can go without blinking.
I have worked on books about happiness, legs, bunnies, chickens, dogs, lots of dogs but I still haven’t done any books about witches, vegetables or badly behaved children. I still have time.
I cannot sleep with my socks on. I hate cottage cheese. I love music but I’m a terrible musician. (I think thats why my gypsy family left me at the museum.)