I loved the Animorphs series passionately.  There was a time when I spent my allowance on nothing else.  Finally, my parents bought me every book I didn’t have and made me do chores to earn them.  This was more motivating than money.  When I got to the David trilogy, I cleaned out the shed to earn all three books at once.  

Then I got to the last book.  Actually the last two.  I read the Animorph ending.  I cried.  I screamed.  I tore my hair.  

I went to my mother who is a professional writer of Science Fiction.  I said to my mother: “Mummy, the ending is wrong.  It’s wrong, it’s bad, it’s terrible.  You have to fix it.”

And my mother said, “Gee, Jennifer.  I’m really very busy writing my own novel series.”

“But you have to fix it!” I insisted.  “It’s all wrong! Just read it! You’ll understand!”

“Alright,” she said.  “I’ll read it.”

So she read it and she said: “You’re right.  It’s wrong, it’s bad, it’s terrible.”

“So you’ll fix it?” I demanded.  

“No,” she said.  “I think you should do it.”

I was shocked.  Who was the writer around here anyway? I couldn’t write a novel!

For months after that, I laughed at the idea.  I let the horrible ending to the series I loved rankle in my soul and wished furiously that it had been done right.  

Then I started thinking.  What if it had been done right? What would that be like? So I started daydreaming.  Then I started scribbling.  Then I started writing.