Off and on, for the past two weeks I have been traveling, visiting schools and conferences and reading from my books. Having done this now for 35 years, I have to ask myself -- do I ever get tired of it?

Truthfully, no.

I love being in the midst of young readers.
I love talking about reading.
I love reading.
I love writing.
I love talking.
I love listening.
I love life.

So my motivation remains strong as the day I signed my first-year teacher's contract for The Windsor Mountain School in Lenox, Massachusetts. The year was 1968 and I earned $5,000.00 as a teacher.

That first year I had a troubled, and troubling, student named Devin. He gave me a lot of grief. He really didn't like me. He turned my second period English class into a tactical teacher-student confrontation each day. My other classes were going OK, but Devin made me ask myself every day why I was teaching, why I wanted to be a teacher. Devin made me want to paint houses for a living.

One day I received a letter in the mail from my grandmother who said her grandson was attending my school. She asked if I would look after him. His name was Devin. That same day, my particular Devin was harassing me in my second period English class, and I did something I've never regretted. I told Devin -- in front of the entire class -- that the reason we were always fighting was because we were related.

It could have gone any way at all. He might have thrown his desk at me. He didn't. Devin sat still as a mouse. At the end of class, he asked me if it were true, that we were related, and if so, how. I said, "My grandmother's name is Stella and she asked me to look after you." Devin's blue eyes filled with tears; he reached out and hugged me. He said, "I love my grandmother." I said, "I do too."

Teachers ask me how I like looking out at an auditorium full of strangers. I tell them -- "There are no strangers. We are all related. Each and every one of us."