"You write fiction and nonfiction?" asked a young boy recently, his tone implying 'they let you do that?'

They do, indeed. And my love for both of them started a long time ago.

The fall after I turned eight, my family moved from the city to a small town outside of Seattle. New, shy, and awkward, I took to ducking into the school library during recess. It was against the rules. Mrs. Peek, the petite librarian, saw me do this, but didn't say anything. It was in that stuffy, school library with the lime-green carpet I discovered everything that was missing from my life—laughter, mystery, adventure, excitement, fearlessness, love, gentleness, and compassion. I devoured books like Kidnapped, Little Women, Charlotte's Web, Chronicles of Narnia and anything by Beverly Clearly. It was bliss. Pure bliss. But, as in every good fiction tale, the lime-green rug was about to be pulled out from under me.

Every fall, Mrs. Peek chose a group of honor students to be shelf-keepers. Each child was assigned a shelf to straighten and maintain by re-shelving returned books. Above each shelf, Mrs. Peek placed a card with the shelf-keeper's name. If, after her weekly inspection, Mrs. Peek found everything in proper order, she'd place a sticker on the card. When, in the autumn of fifth grade, Mrs. Peek, chose me to be a shelf-keeper, I was ecstatic. I couldn't wait to find out which precious fiction shelf she had entrusted to me. Maybe the W's with Laura Ingalls Wilder's series? Or, perhaps, the C shelf with my beloved Beverly Clearly?

When Mrs. Peek handed me my card, I went numb. All I saw were—horrors—numbers! A nonfiction shelf? I had been relegated to the back of the library to the—ick—travel section. Soon, my name would be stuck on that bookshelf for everyone to see. I was devastated. Angry. Humiliated. Walking home that day, I fought back tears. I wanted to quit, but I knew if I did I would disappoint Mrs. Peek. So I decided to hang in there. Each morning, I made sure every title on my shelf was in proper Dewey Decimal system order, from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe. I pretended not to see the fiction shelf-keepers as they danced by with the likes of Judy Blume, E.L. Konigsburg, and my Beverly Cleary on their carts, while I struggled to shelve heavy travel books with fold-out maps that refused to fold in.

As the stickers began to fill my shelfkeeper card, something happened. At first, it was a gentle tug. Then an insistent pull. I couldn't help it. I had to do it. I opened the biggest book on my shelf, a 20-pounder on Australia. When I saw the giant photo of loggerhead turtles paddling through the waters of the Great Barrier Reef, I was hooked. One by one, I read all of the books on my shelf. I learned about people I had never heard of, animals I had never seen, and places I could barely pronounce. And day by day, my world grew a little larger.

In the fall of sixth grade, Mrs. Peek took me aside. She told me I had done such a good job with the travel section, I could have my pick of any shelf in the library. Any shelf? I did not hesitate. Guess which one I chose?

I often wonder where Mrs. Peek is today, and what she would say if she knew the quirky girl behind the tortoise shell glasses would one day write nonfiction books (68, so far), on everything from video gaming to storm chasing, earthquakes to Earth Day, and—yep—even travel. 

I like to think she does know. I like to think she knew all along.