Dustin Scott Hinkle

In high school, writing was everything to me. Short stories, poems, thoughts, ideas—if it came to mind, it found its way to paper. Always paper. Always pen. I never believed in erasing anything I wrote. There was something sacred about the permanence of ink. It meant I owned every word, even the messy ones.

Back then, I had a few poems published—some in books, others in magazines. It felt good to know my words were out there, living in print. But life, as it often does, moved forward. I wrote less and less. Time became harder to find. Eventually, writing slipped into the background.

I got married. Built a life. And somewhere along the way, I forgot I was a writer.

Then one evening, I was sitting with my daughter Willow, helping her with her English homework. She looked up at me and said,

“Dad, Mommy told me you used to write.”

I laughed. “That was a long time ago, kiddo.”

She just smiled and said, “Will you write me a story sometime?”

It only took a second. One look in her eyes, and I saw a reflection of my younger self—the same spark I once carried. And I told her yes.

I started writing again. But this time, I wasn’t alone. I had a little helper.

Willow makes things... challenging, interesting, and fun. Most of the stories I write now are stories based on her and her stuffed animals. A lot of them are true—at least, they start that way—before Willow adds her own brand of imagination and inspiration.

My wife Katie, helps too. God, I love her. She’s my best friend and love, never afraid to tell me when I’ve gone too far. Sometimes I forget I’m writing for children. She’ll stop me and say, “Wait—think about it. What would Willow do?”

And more often than not, Willow will jump right in and answer that question herself.