Anne Schraff?

Question

Please Help.... I need information on Anne Scraff. Age, Schooling, Experiences, Literary Works, Accalades etc. * First answer/ first best answer.*

Answer 1

Dear Reader,
I learned to read at age three and a half because I was tired of having to ask people to read all the funny papers to me. Once I knew how to read, I gobbled up books like most kids devour cookies. I soon figured that if reading was this much fun, writing had to be even better. And it was.

I begged a typewriter from my mom and banged out stories every day. I was sure I'd sell them all and be the richest nine-year-old on my block. My first story was titled "Orchards for Linda." It was a tearjerker about a poor girl who had to buy her own flowers on a date. I mailed it to a big magazine and waited for the check.

When it came back all bent up and rejected, I cried. But not for long. The next day I sent out another story. I spent my whole childhood writing stories and getting them back. Finally, when I was starting college, I sold my first story. I told everybody on my street that I was—at last—a writer. I told the mailman, the grocer, the pastor of our church. I walked on air for about a week.

Since then I've sold hundreds of stories and more than 35 books. Ideas come at me from all sides. Once, I saw a dusty marble statue in an old antique store. It seemed to come to life before my eyes. Soon I wrote a story about a long-dead teacher returning to his school as a ghost to save some kids. It was called The Haunting of Hawthorne.

One day I saw a sad sight across the street from our house. A young girl hugged her mother—but the mother didn't hug her back. This stayed in my mind as I wrote Please Don't Ask Me to Love You.

Every day on my way to teach school, I passed a little market on a run-down street. The owner of the market, a friendly black man in his 70, would often wave to me. One day when I passed, I noticed the market was closed. The man who owned the market had been murdered. The newspaper story told of a kindly soul who had been a blessing to the neighborhood. I remembered him when I wrote When a Hero Dies.

As I write my stories, I see the faces of so many students I have taught. They often shared their dreams with me. Their fears and joys became part of my day. In every book I write, there are little bits and pieces of wonderful people who were brave and fearful, funny and sad, hopeful and without hope.

When I begin to write, a weird thing happens. The characters come to life and tell me their stories. I am writing down what is happening to these people. Often I'm surprised. I'll think, "Wow—I didn't know she was that kind of person!" Sometimes I'll start a story about a bad character and that person will turn out to be a hero.

Writing is the biggest joy of my life. Every day I am thankful for having the chance to tell stories. I sometimes feel like a magic flute. I am blowing, but somebody else is making the music.

Good Reading,

Anne Schraff


P.S.That's all I found!