One of my earliest memories is of being in the back seat of the car with my four sisters and brothers after a long day at the beach. My skin was fiery-hot with a sunburn, and my sister’s elbow was digging into my side. We left Marin County and headed south on the Golden Gate Bridge just as the sun slid into the Pacific Ocean. The clouds were edged in a silvery light, and the ocean turned a deep, mysterious blue. In a rush the world suddenly felt magical and full of breathtaking possibility. I was no longer tired and cranky but poised perfectly between the water and sky.
Though I have crossed the bridge many, many times since then, I had never walked across it. To begin this book, the first thing I did was walk the bridge from one end to the other. I started on the San Francisco side, a cold wind stinging my cheeks. The walkway trembled beneath my feet as cars rushed by. Passing under the first tower, I realized just how truly massive it was. Close up, even the rivets were bigger than I had imagined. How had this bridge ever been built, with the basic tools and machinery available nearly a century ago?
Just as I passed the midpoint of the bridge, I remembered that magical moment as a child in the back seat. I wondered: can I possibly capture that amazing feeling with my words? The bridge was both very solid, and yet … something more.
When I reached the north end of the bridge, I peered over the rail, and far below spotted what remained of the Lime Point Lighthouse, nearly tucked under the foot of the bridge. What must it have been like to be living quietly at the lighthouse and then suddenly be right in the middle of a huge construction site? To watch this awe-inspiring bridge being built from beginning to end?
I plunged into reading about how the bridge was built and pored over photographs in books and online. Somehow, the bridge and the lighthouse felt like two halves of the whole story. I realized I could write about the bridge being built from the point of view of children living at the lighthouse. As I imagined myself back in time, I found I was writing in second person, using the pronoun you. Most writing is in third person, (she, he, them, and theirs) or in first (I, me, mine, ours). Instead of changing it to the more usual third person, I loved the casual immediacy of inviting readers to join me in the lighthouse and on the bridge.
When I was done with the writing and my words had been sent to Ellen Heck, the illustrator, I wondered: did I capture the feeling I’d had on the bridge long ago? I really wasn’t sure. Months passed while Ellen worked, and finally her initial drawings were sent to me.
I looked at page after page as blues and grays gave way to the oranges of the bridge, as the two children (and their dog!) watched and grew and finally crossed the bridge on that exciting opening day. And then I knew, Ellen and I together had summoned the magical sense that life is full of breathtaking possibilities.
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