"Hands down, the biggest thrill is to get a letter from a kid saying, I loved your book. Will you write me another one?"
About this Quote
Kate DiCamillo points past prizes and sales toward the most elemental reward in storytelling: a living connection. A child writing, unvarnished and urgent, says both I felt this and Please keep going. That small exchange contains the entire arc of literature, from the solitary act of making to the communal act of receiving and then asking for more. The phrase hands down signals there is no contest here; a note from a young reader eclipses reviews, metrics, and prestige because it proves the story has crossed the gap and taken root where it matters.
The request for another one carries both joy and weight. It is enthusiasm, of course, but also trust. A child has invited the writer back into the imaginative space they now share. For an author whose books give solace to lonely protagonists and assemble communities out of unlikely friendships, the letter is the world answering back in kind: I, too, felt less alone. That feedback loop is the heartbeat of children’s literature, where readers are not passive consumers but co-creators, finishing the book with their own wonder and then extending it with a question.
There is also something telling about the physical letter. Tangible, specific, it resists abstraction and puts a face on audience. Amid the noise of algorithms, a handwritten message cuts through with clarity and humility. It reminds the writer why the work began: to reach someone who needed a story at the exact moment they found it.
Another one is not just a plea for more pages. It is a vote of confidence in imagination itself, a belief that the well is not empty and that the next journey can be as true as the last. For DiCamillo, whose career exemplifies faith in the redemptive power of narrative, that belief is the biggest thrill because it means the story has become a bridge strong enough to carry both writer and reader forward together.
The request for another one carries both joy and weight. It is enthusiasm, of course, but also trust. A child has invited the writer back into the imaginative space they now share. For an author whose books give solace to lonely protagonists and assemble communities out of unlikely friendships, the letter is the world answering back in kind: I, too, felt less alone. That feedback loop is the heartbeat of children’s literature, where readers are not passive consumers but co-creators, finishing the book with their own wonder and then extending it with a question.
There is also something telling about the physical letter. Tangible, specific, it resists abstraction and puts a face on audience. Amid the noise of algorithms, a handwritten message cuts through with clarity and humility. It reminds the writer why the work began: to reach someone who needed a story at the exact moment they found it.
Another one is not just a plea for more pages. It is a vote of confidence in imagination itself, a belief that the well is not empty and that the next journey can be as true as the last. For DiCamillo, whose career exemplifies faith in the redemptive power of narrative, that belief is the biggest thrill because it means the story has become a bridge strong enough to carry both writer and reader forward together.
Quote Details
| Topic | Writing |
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