I bought this art glass chicken when I moved into my studio about four years ago. I had a new space, a new desk, and lots of new bookshelves. Filling the shelves wouldn't be hard, what with the billions of books I hoard. But instead of shoehorning in nothing but books, I indulged my nesting instinct and made room for a few additional objects on the shelves, such as photos of my kids and an hourglass representing making time for writing.

That week I happened upon this chicken at the craft store. I knew at once she belonged on my shelves. I was at a point with my writing where I needed to plunge in and take some risks. My new fine-feathered friend would roost on the top shelf—a vantage point from which she would eye me all day, every day, admonishing me to quit being such a big fat chicken. 

So now that's her job, being the big fat chicken. My job is to make the art I feel most passionate about and reach out to connect in ways that compel me. Oh sure, those things are still scary. But with a chicken riding shotgun, I have to be the courageous one. 

Lately, in the mornings, I've been writing picture books. I find them fun and satisfying, because I can often finish a draft in an hour or less. Of course, that doesn't mean they're "done-done"—but at least I've added a unique little piece to my collection and juiced up my creativity for the day. 

Many illustrators I know sketch daily for the same reason. Some writers journal. Some write poems. Me, I've started writing picture books. What small thing can you do every day for an hour or less that will help you hone your craft and build your inventory? 

Here's my picture-book warm-up for this morning: 

If I Were a Bear
by Karla Oceanak

(Child): If I were a bear I would growl at the sky.
(Bear): I am a bear. I love the sky.

(Child): If I were a bear I would climb a tall tree.
(Bear): I am a bear. Trees make me dizzy.

(Child): If I were a bear I would sleep in a cave.
(Bear): I am a bear. I would rather have your bed.

(Child): If I were a bear I would catch fish with my paws.
(Bear): I am a bear. It’s not as easy as it looks.

(Child): If I were a bear I would eat berry pie.
(Bear): I am a bear. Pie is not on the menu.

(Child): If I were a bear I would live by myself.
(Bear): I am a bear. Living alone is overrated.

(Child): If I were a bear I would be king of the forest.
(Bear): I am a bear. What’s a king?

(Child): If I were a bear I would stand up and roar.
(Bear): I am a bear. Roaring makes my throat scratchy.

(Child): If I were a bear I would hear every little sound and catch my prey.
(Bear): I am a bear. I like listening to ladybugs sing.

(Child): If I were a bear I would never need a haircut.
(Bear): I am a bear. Around July a haircut sounds pretty good.

(Child): If I were a bear I would never need a bath!
(Bear): I am a bear. I agree with you on that one.

(Child): If I were a bear I would run up a mountain.
(Bear): I am a bear. Running down a mountain is the way to go.

(Child): If I were a bear I would scare all the humans.
(Bear): I am a bear. Humans scare me.

(Night is falling.)

(Child): If I were a bear I would learn all the stars.
(Bear): I am a bear. I watch my stars every night. (illustration: ursa major and minor)

(Bear): If I were a human I would give you a hug.
(Child): Sigh. Bears these days...

In my writers' group, we sometimes talk about audience. As in, "Who are you writing this piece for?"

Often, writers don't know. They're writing what they want to say. And they're hoping that if they say it well enough, an editor will like it, it will get published, and the audience will be the publication's problem.

On the one hand, I admire this stance. It's the "I'm creating what my muse inspires me to create" position, and I'm sure it has resulted in some of the most compelling art ever made.

On the other hand, I don't buy it. The author comes to the page with a worldview, and whether she is aware of it or not, she is creating through the lens of that worldview. Embedded in every sentence, then, are assumptions—about what the reader already knows, about the language that will touch her, about what she finds thrilling or sad or puzzling.

In beginning writers, lack of audience awareness typically results in mechanical problems like disjointed prose; their writing may make sense to them, but it doesn't hold together for their reader. And I've noticed that experienced writers who eschew audience often disappoint. They follow their muse into plot dead ends or long digressions, unaware that they lost their reader's attention long ago.

Plus, isn't being published for being published's sake a sort of empty proposition?

Me, I write to connect, mostly with kids. I write for them, not for myself. I care about reaching them.

The Aldo Zelnick series' audience is 7 to 12 years old or so, is familiar with American pop culture, and can relate to a suburban middle-class life. I'm conscious of this as I write. The stories are told in Aldo's voice, so it's through him that I talk to this audience. They're Aldo's peers. Kids just like him. Kids like McKaiden (pictured above).

I write for the McKaidens (and the McKaylas) of today. Who do you write for?

I don't know any good writers who aren't also good—and usually voracious—readers.

In the wheelhouse of writer as reader, a "good reader" means you read deeply within the genre and form in which you want to write. You also read widely, across genres, to learn what you can from them.

As you're reading, you're appreciating, yes (or bemoaning, as the case may be), but you're also analyzing for form and technique. Why does this first chapter work so well? How does this character's voice differ from that one, and why? How is this novel (or short story or essay) structured? Why is this scene so compelling or so flat?

I've been part of a writers' group for 20 years. I've also edited for hire, taught college composition classes, ghostwritten, and reviewed hundreds of submissions for Bailiwick Press. So I've done oodles of critiquing as well as "here, give-me-that" deep revision/rewriting of others' drafts.

New writers almost always stink at form and technique. Of course they do! How did the first meal you ever cooked turn out?  What about your first vegetable garden or your first weld or your first watercolor?

Make no mistake: Writing is craft. It takes years of practice (I more or less ascribe to Malcolm Gladwell's 10,000-hour rule) as well as study of the medium, which is words strung together in an effective way, a.k.a. good writing.

When I do school visits, I tell kids there are two secrets to becoming an author. The first secret is to practice, just as you would need to do to master the cello or become a soccer phenom. The second secret is reading. Lots and lots of reading.

The thing I don't tell them, because they don't need to know this until they're older, is that eventually they'll need to learn to read as a writer, with a curiosity about and passion for form and technique.

I've seen many pre-published or published-a-little-but-often-rejected writers get stuck because they don't do this. Their craft doesn't improve beyond a certain point because they never learn to (stoop to? take the time to? think they have to?)  hold up their work against the best writing in their genre—not to tell which is "better," but to understand how—sentence by sentence, page by page, chapter by chapter—they compare in form and technique.

I'm not talking about reading for pleasure, because this kind of analytical reading-for-writers does take some of the fun away. But I think that learning to pull aside the curtain on good writing is also a kick. Because when you look really closely, the best writing will reveal its secrets to you. Learning how to apply those secrets to your own work...that's another matter, one that counts toward your 10,000 hours.