I grew up surrounded by creativity. My mother, a dynamic single mom who sings, acts and writes Christian plays, took my brother and me to productions at a children's theater, made up bedtime tales and encouraged us to express ourselves through the arts. My grandparents taught us old-school dances, crooned gospel tunes and showed their imagination through cooking and gardening. As if sprinkled by fairy dust, I became enchanted too and began to write.

I started by penning entries in my diary. I unlocked the wooden box that safeguarded its secrets, slipped out the tattered maroon book and gave words to my feelings. Later, I wrote poems and fantasy tales. My hometown of Pittsburgh provided the backdrop for some of my earliest stories.

A canopy of trees transformed into a make-believe fortress, backyards hid treasure and tunnels to faraway lands, bridges that crossed the Monongahela, Allegheny and Ohio rivers spanned distance and time. Laying on my back against the green blanket of my grandparents' yard, I stared at the cotton-candy clouds and let my mind take me wherever it wanted. I was a child who dreamed large.

My family was my first audience. I read my stories to my mom, grandparents, aunts and uncles, whoever would listen. They cheered all of my efforts, even the ones that flopped. Their compliments boosted my confidence and motivated me to keep writing. If I wasn't writing or hanging out with my cousins and neighbors, I was reading. My favorite spot to read was snuggled behind my bedroom door with my feet warmed by the heat from the radiator grate. I lost and found myself over and over in the pages of books.

The first--make that the only--children's book I discovered with a black character was "Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry" by Mildred D. Taylor. Even though it was set in Depression-era Mississippi, that story spoke to me in a special way. Before then, the characters of my books were white children or talking animals. Those stories were magic. But this one was different. I was reading a story through the eyes of a girl whose skin color was the same as mine.

I don't remember the exact moment I decided I wanted to be an author. Make that had to be an author. Because one day, nothing else would do. Not being a chemist as fun with a chemistry set once had me consider or an anthropologist (think Zora Neale Hurston) - a career I thought would be adventurous and cool. I longed to join the ranks of the artists whose writing I came to love in high school -- Richard Wright, James Baldwin and Lorraine Hansberry. That was my plan.

Funny thing about plans . . . Saying you want to be an author is easy. The hard part is being disciplined enough to put in the work, to clutch your desire with all of your mind and stick to it even when the words evade you like a child playing hide-and-go-seek.

I wrote a lot back then -- mostly essays for class and some (poetry, plays) for me. But more than anything, between learning the highs and lows of friendships, dealing with acne, dancing at teen clubs and dating boys, I dreamed. Some kids bought Teen and Right On! magazines. I bought those but also Writer's Digest and The Writer. That was the life for me.

In college, I uncovered another part of myself. I majored in African-American Studies and awakened a new love. Well, maybe it was an old one that slept inside me. Remember "Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry." Professors introduced me to dozens of African-American, Caribbean and African authors whose stories touched my spirit like that book did, more than anything I'd ever read.

I learned about the Black Aesthetic of the 1960s, a philosophy that said that art should never be for art's sake but to enlighten and transform, to make the invisible seen and felt. My work began to have meaning.



Celebrating the launch of One Million Men and Me, Kelly signs posters and books at Just Us Books' booth at BookExpo America. Photo by Stephan Hudson/2nd Chapter

My first grown-up stories were feature articles with real people around me as the characters. My mission became to write about people who never had their stories told. My stories and essays appeared in local and national newspapers and magazines.

I rediscovered children's books while working in Chicago. I read moving picture books and compelling young adult novels with black children as the main characters. For a girl who didn't grow up with those stories, seeing them stirred something in my soul. I knew one day I would add my voice.

I got my break in 2003. I contacted Cheryl Willis Hudson, co-founder of Just Us Books and told her my dream of writing children's books. Several months later, her daughter Katura offered me a chance to write sample chapters and a plot summary for their chapter book series, NEATE, that centered on the lives of five 8th grade friends. Three books in the series had already been published. They were searching for writers for the fourth and fifth.

I won the assignment to write book #4 -- a story on Martin Edward (Eddie) Delaney -- and came up with a plot that dealt with the tension between him and his civil rights attorney dad. I thought back to the stories I had covered as a journalist. One in particular, From Raleigh to Selma, helped me explore their relationship. I turned in my manuscript and the editorial team challenged me to add more description and drama. They pushed me to polish and then polish again. Now, I'm an author.

In fall 2007, Just Us Books published my second book -- One Million Men and Me. It's a picture book about the Million Man March illustrated by Peter Ambush. I have two forthcoming picture books with Penguin/G.P. Putnam's Sons that explore black history and family relationships. I feel so blessed when I see children reading my books or see a copy on the shelf of a library or bookstore.

I'm grown up now, a wife and mom. I never imagined that I would have such an interesting journey to publishing. I never knew that to come of age surrounded by people who believe in your vision, who encourage you to dream and do was rare and precious. I'm so thankful now for that beginning.

In a way, my life path has brought me back to my roots. I’ve returned to that dreamy girl I used to be who warmed her feet at the radiator behind her bedroom door and stepped through the pages of books into other lives. But this time, instead of looking at reflections created by someone else, I’m the one holding up the mirror so that children can see.