Janice reached over and tapped Clara’s blank paper. "Close your eyes. Don't think about writing a masterpiece. Just think about a memory that feels like a cookie."

An hour later, the rain had finally stopped, and a weak beam of afternoon sunlight broke through the attic window. Clara put her pencil down and looked up at her aunt, her eyes glowing. She had filled two whole pages.

"I did it," Clara said breathlessly. "I wrote a story about a girl who lives in a giant tree and talks to the birds." "And how does it feel?" Janice asked.

Janice watched quietly, sipping her milk. She knew that the secret to writing wasn't found in a handbook of strict rules, but in the joy of discovery.

Clara closed her eyes. She ignored the rain and thought about last summer. She thought about the giant old avocado tree in her grandparents' backyard. She remembered climbing up into its thick, green branches where the leaves were so dense they created a secret, shaded cave. She remembered sitting up there for hours, hidden from the rest of the world, eating a peach while the juice ran down her chin. "I'm thinking of the avocado tree," Clara whispered.

The rain drummed a relentless, messy rhythm against the windowpane of the attic room. For ten-year-old Clara, trapped inside on a Saturday afternoon, the grey sky felt like a heavy woolen blanket. She sighed and looked at the small wooden desk her grandmother had given her. On top sat a stack of lined paper and a single, sharp pencil.

Janice picked up a cookie and broke it in half, letting the melted chocolate stretch between the pieces. "You know, Clara, a lot of people think writing is like eating a giant bowl of raw broccoli. They think it's just hard work, strict rules, and something you have to do because it's good for you. But really? Storytelling is just like these cookies." Clara tilted her head. "Cookies?"