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Sharon M. Draper

Sharon M. Draper Books

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Out of my mind

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Tears of a Tiger

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Copper Sun

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“It’s just that . . . well, I like the night. And it’s a good place to hide.” “Hide? From what?” Stella inched away, making a face. “I come out here to practice, Mama. I’ve got stuff in my head, but I don’t know how to get it out. I try to write it down some“times, but I’m not very good at it. It’s like my brains are dumplings in somebody else’s soup.” She looked up toward the stars, but even the sky had turned murky. Her mother hugged her closer. “I’ve talked to Gertrude Grayson a time or two,” she said gently. Stella stiffened. Betrayed! “She says you are the best thinker in the school.”

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Book:Stella by Starlight
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“The same wind that blowed so hard the sun came up late and Sunday didn’t get here until late Tuesday evening?” Pastor Patton joined in. “That’s musta been why I missed church last week,” Mr. Winston said. “You missed church because you went fishing!” Pastor Patton retorted. Mr. Winston turned to Spoon Man. “Save me, Spoon Man,” he pleaded. “Tell us a story before the pastor sends me to damnation for a fishin’ trip!”

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Book:Stella by Starlight
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“Well, what about that storm that blew the crooked road straight?” “The same wind that blowed so hard the sun came up late and Sunday didn’t get here until late Tuesday evening?” Pastor Patton joined in. “That’s musta been why I missed church last week,” Mr. Winston said. “You missed church because you went fishing!” Pastor Patton retorted. Mr. Winston turned to Spoon Man. “Save me, Spoon Man,” he pleaded. “Tell us a story before the pastor sends me to damnation for a fishin’ trip!”

StoriesHumourHistorical FictionThe Great DepressionBlack SouthFire Pit
Author:Sharon M. Draper
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“It’s like I’ve always had a painted musical sound track playing background to my life. I can almost hear colors and smell images when music is played. Mom loves classical. Big, booming Beethoven symphonies blast from her CD player all day long. Those pieces always seem to be bright blue as I listen, and they smell like fresh paint. Dad is partial to jazz, and every chance he gets, he winks at me, takes out Mom’s Mozart disc, then pops in a CD of Miles Davis or Woody Herman. Jazz to me sounds brown and tan, and it smells like wet dirt.”

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Book:Out of my mind
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