I was born a long time ago in Taylor, Pennsylvania, where all the early photographs of me are black-and-white. Perhaps the world had no color back then—or, because Taylor was a mining town, everything was simply covered with a fine layer of gray coal dust.

My mother’s name was Nell, and my father’s name was Wallace. Until fairly recently, my older brother had me convinced that I had been adopted from a family of wandering coyotes.

With Polish roots on both sides of my family, I grew up surrounded by traditional Polish customs and food. My parents both understood or spoke Polish, but they mostly used it as a secret language whenever my brother, sister, or I entered the room.

Like most kids, I played baseball in the summer, football in the fall, and basketball in the winter. I never excelled at any of them, but I was a master of balance. My mother told me I learned to ride a bicycle without training wheels when I was four. I don’t think I could tie my shoes yet, but I could ride a bike—and I rode it everywhere.

In college, I learned to ride a unicycle. Unfortunately, my inability to juggle ended any hope of a career in the circus.

I also loved hiking, picking mushrooms and blueberries, and fishing with my dad. To this day, however, I refuse to take a fish off the hook. They are far too slimy and wiggly. When I was young, I ran to my father for help. These days, I run to my son Alec.

For as long as I can remember, I have loved to draw. I think I have my older brother Bob to thank for that.

Using simple shapes and letters—a large “C” with a smaller “c” inside it to make an ear—he showed me how to draw a face. My first attempt looked like an alien from outer space, but I kept practicing. After what seemed like my hundredth try, I finally drew a face that looked pretty good.

The next day, Bob showed it to his friends. They couldn’t believe his four-year-old brother had drawn it. They told me I was an amazing artist, and I was so proud that I still remember that moment today.

It was the first time I understood how encouraging words can give a young artist the confidence to keep going.

I had wonderful parents who worked very hard to raise my brother, my sister, and me, but reading wasn’t a large part of our home life. I struggled with reading when I was young, although I drew constantly—sometimes when I was supposed to be paying attention in class.

One day, my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Powell, caught me drawing in my notebook during a lesson. She asked me to stay inside during recess, and I was certain I was in serious trouble.

Instead, she sat beside me and read Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel. She showed me how the pictures worked together with the words. I was hooked.

For the next couple of weeks, I came inside early from recess, and Mrs. Powell read to me while she ate lunch. I can still remember the occasional bit of food flying from her mouth as she read.

Mrs. Powell gave me a love of reading. She passed away many years ago and never saw me become an author, but I tell her story to students and teachers everywhere. Teachers often provide the spark that creative—and occasionally distracted—students need. I know because one of them provided that spark for me.

I attended Kutztown State University and majored in painting. During college, one of my professors took our class to visit artists’ studios in Philadelphia. Their work was beautiful, but many of the artists lived and worked in old warehouses and supported themselves with second jobs. I began to wonder whether I could build a life as an artist.

A few weeks later, the same professor took us to an exhibition featuring some of America’s finest illustrators in New York City. Their work was every bit as beautiful, but these artists were earning a living from it. Some of them even owned homes and cars!

That was when I knew what I wanted to do.

After college, I moved to Boston and carried my portfolio everywhere I could think of—newspapers, magazines, advertising agencies, and design firms. I met many generous people who gave me my first assignments and helped me begin my career as a professional illustrator. It was hard work, but it was also a lot of fun.

I married my best friend, Kathy, in 1981. We have three wonderful children: Justin, Alec, and Julia. They all enjoy drawing, although I’m still not sure whether any of them intend to become artists or authors.

In the early 1990s, I met author Jerry Pallotta and began illustrating some of his books. Jerry also invited me to join him on school visits. Watching him present his stories helped me understand the most important people in children’s publishing: the readers.

Around 2000, I began writing and illustrating my own books full-time while continuing to visit schools. Since then, I have had the privilege of meeting students throughout the United States and in countries across Europe, Asia, and Africa.

Visiting schools is a little like being a musician who performs a new song for an audience before recording it. When I share a developing story with students, I see what makes them laugh, what surprises them, and what holds their attention. Their reactions help me understand the story—and my own creative process—even better.

During my presentations, I show students how an idea grows from a rough sketch into a finished book, including the mistakes, revisions, and unexpected discoveries along the way. Best of all, I get to meet teachers and librarians from around the world. They are my heroes—and the people who place my books into the hands of young readers.