I grew up in a small Irish Catholic family of ten kids: eight girls, two boys. Six of those were younger than me, so my older sister, Bud, and I often got stuck babysitting. (Bud is short for Rosebud which is short for Rosemary. Yes, that's her name in my very first book, The Druid's Tune, along with my brother Jim.) On hot Toronto summer days, Bud and I would drag the younger siblings down to the beach of Lake Ontario. We'd get up early, do all our house chores, pack a lunch, and head out. We didn't know anything about pollution back then, or the dangers of too much sun, so we spent long glorious hours playing in the water, making sand castles, and eating our picnic of ham-and-cheese sandwiches, orange drinks, and potato chips. The only problem was getting back home again. There was a HUGE hill to climb between our house and the beach.

How did I get all those tired little kids with sunburned legs up that hill? I told them stories. Stories in which they were the heroes. I asked them their favorite colors, and I dressed them in fabulous clothes to match: long gowns with veils and jewels, velvet cloaks, and plumed hats. Then I asked about their favorite foods, and described a fairy banquet with everything they wanted to eat and more. Finally, I created bubble cars-one each!-with silken cushions that floated the lot of us up the hill.

Years and years later, when I began to publish my books, my siblings laughed and pointed out to me, "You are still dressing everyone up in gorgeous clothes and giving them feasts!" True enough. And when people ask me why I write fairy tales and magical stories, I like to quote the sixteenth-century author of Tristan, who called his work "a labour of love, to comfort noble hearts."

And that is just a fancy way of saying that there could be some kids somewhere trying to get up a hill.

Editor's Note: O.R. Melling is the author of The Chronicles of Faerie Series.