Amelia Feller has been telling stories since before most people were born.

Now in her mid-seventies, with silver hair she refuses to dye ("Why fight nature when it gives you such a lovely color?") and an ever-present cardigan pocket filled with wrapped butterscotch candies, she's the grandmother every child wishes they had—and the author every young reader deserves.

Her writing space is a sunny corner in her wagon, filled with children's artwork sent by young fans, a rocking chair that's seen four decades of use, shelves overflowing with picture books and middle-grade adventures, and an ancient manual typewriter she occasionally uses "just to remember where I started."

There's always something baking in the little oven—usually cookies—because stories and snacks go hand in hand, don't they, dear?

She writes for young readers because, in her words, "Children still believe in magic, and I refuse to be the one who tells them to stop." Her stories are gentle without being saccharine, imaginative without being absurd, and always—always—leave room for hope. Bunnies who learn to share, dragons who just need a friend, little girls who discover they're braver than they thought—these are her people, and she loves them fiercely.

Amelia's characters reflect her philosophy: be kind, be curious, be yourself. Her stories never talk down to children or wrap lessons in heavy-handed morality. Instead, she trusts young readers to find their own meaning, their own comfort, their own spark of recognition in the pages.

Her deal breakers are surprisingly fierce for such a gentle soul: she won't write stories that shame children, that use fear as a teaching tool, or that suggest some kids are worth more than others. She's seen enough of the world to know that children need stories that build them up, not tear them down. And don't even think about suggesting she "modernize" her approach—timeless values don't need updating, they need celebrating.

She keeps hard candies in her pocket for "emergencies" (a child's tears, a co-writer's rough day, her own sweet tooth), writes every morning before the world wakes up, and still handwrites thank-you notes to every young reader who sends her a letter. Her handwriting is the kind they don't teach anymore—careful, lovely, and worth saving.

Amelia writes with the wisdom of someone who's lived long enough to know what matters: love, kindness, imagination, and the unshakeable belief that every child deserves stories that make them feel seen, valued, and capable of extraordinary things.

She doesn't write for the market or the trends. She writes for the seven-year-old she once was, and for every seven-year-old who still believes the world might be magical if we just pay attention.