Mud Farts, Manuscripts & Me
How I came to do what I do.
here are those who've always known they were destined to become artists and then there is me. As a kid, the only thing I knew I was destined to become was soaked and scrubbed. I had a thing for mud. If composing melodic mud farts with one's bare feet stuck deep down into swampy goop was a viable occupation — then that's what I would have become — a musical mud man. But since there's no money in mud, I set out in search of a line of work that would welcome and foster my imaginative and playful hankerings.
My journey began with architecture. And while the thought of one day designing the world's first tessering treehouse was a recurring daydream of mine; having to calculate it's tensile strength in the 5th dimension was not. Accepting my mathematical limitations, my aspirations quickly shifted to graphic design; a creative profession thankfully void of quantum physics. At first, I found delight in the field's playful nomenclature. Who wouldn't want to spend their days mocking up a dummy of doodled dingbats?
Unfortunately, the more graphic terminology I was exposed to, the more my delight dimmed to dread. I began living in fear of those same dumb dingbats showing up to my type house to drop cap my masthead, die-cut my body text and toss what's left into a typographic river to bleed.
Hesitant to attempt another design discipline, I made my way back to the sanctuary of school. It was there, during a publication class, that I met an unconventional Old Lady who opened my eyes to the imaginative and playful world of the picture book. And because of her and her unorthodox ways, I discovered my vocation and now proudly stand before you a published and practicing children's book maker.
3580 Indian Queen Lane
Philadelphia, PA 19129
(215) 450—0886
For all book inquiries,
contact Rebecca Sherman
of Writers House.
