"Aren't you worried about the thorns?" my son asked.

"Nope," I said with an air of confidence that sounded as empty as my bucket when I dropped in the first berry. "I write children's books," I added.

Picking raspberries requires nothing less than blood, sweat, and tears. A little stubborn determination goes a long way in battling the blood-sucking bugs, flesh-piercing thorns, and the overwhelming desire to quit before you've filled the bucket. Sound familiar?

On this summer day, my son and I were picking raspberries in the corner of our lot, a few yards away from the neighboring ice cream shop. While he picked around the perimeter of the berry patch, I chose to go straight into it, allowing the thorns to slice my skin, and entangle themselves in the laces of my sneakers. Why? Because picking berries, like writing for children, involves a certain amount of risk-taking, pain, and adventure. Neither is for the thin-skinned. Both are for dreamers. Like writing for children, picking raspberries isn't for everyone. But for me, there are many parallels between the two.

As a writer, I've learned over the years that staying put - also known as the "Butt in Chair" approach - is one way of getting the job done. Today I decided to apply that same principle to picking berries, and as a result, I discovered the least painful and most productive way to pick. I planted my feet, then harvested all the berries within my reach before moving my feet again. Using this method, my bucket was nearly full in just a few minutes.

So far, this was my best raspberry harvest ever, a thought that struck me as nothing short of dumb luck when I thought back to the day I planted this berry patch. That was ten years ago, when I set three spindly plants in the ground. At the time, I knew as much about growing raspberries as the average toddler knows about rocket science. I started out this way as a writer, too - a toddler, really. Under just the right conditions, and with lots of time, nourishment, and luck, both my writing skills and my berry patch flourished. I was fruitful. I was published. And that was satisfying. Well, almost.

Why does it seem that the biggest, ripest berries are always just beyond reach? Perhaps this is because writers and berry pickers alike are dreamers. As writers, we all aspire to write bestsellers, or to work with "dream publishers" or "dream agents" at some point in our careers. Today, I had to have those berries, my "dream berries," the ones that sparkled in the sunlight. Whether my bucket was half-full or overflowing didn't matter. I was going to go for it all. This meant I had to leave my place of comfort. Taking another step into the patch meant having to free myself from thorns, before blindly stepping further into the mass of flesh-slicing vines. Getting myself in there, I knew, was my only chance to get to those hard-to-reach dream berries.

Much like the thorns of the writing world, otherwise known as rejections, raspberry thorns have a sharp, angry grip, and they hurt. A seasoned writer, I've been hurt many times, and understood the value of preparation. Today, properly prepared by wearing long sleeves and pants, the berry thorns were mere snags. With a determined pull, I was able to free myself from most of them.

Here's where the final parallel between berry picking and writing for children comes in - the adventure. The story. In the middle of my berry patch, bucket nearly full, I felt a pinch from what I thought must be a thorn with an Olympian-sized grip on my rear end. I stopped, turned, and suddenly realized that this was not a thorn at all. There was something crawling in my pants!

The horror of that thought transformed my body into a catapult. I suddenly became the heroine of my story, complete with the super powers necessary to leap over and through the thorns to where my son was standing.

"Look!" I screamed, pulling my waistband down just a bit, and pointing to the suspicious area. "Is it a spider? An ant?"

My son grew very quiet as he searched for the culprit. I knew I was in real trouble when my son, a true lover of bugs, suddenly became wide-eyed and took several steps backward.

"Nope. It's a bee, Mom," he said in a voice that was somewhere between a whisper and scream.

That's when it happened. The unexpected twist in the plot of my story. I had no other choice. I was terrified. And in a nanosecond, I was exposed.

Pants around my knees, I was immediately relieved, and so, apparently, was the bee. It flew away with no prompting (and no stinging). This was a joyful moment, surpassed only by the fact that I had just spotted a darling little baby praying mantis scampering in the grass beneath my feet. Myself a true lover of bugs, this was nothing less than a Hallmark moment.

"Awww," I cooed, pointing to the mantis.

My son came closer for a better look. He gently picked up the mantis on his finger and together, we stood up to admire it. I couldn't believe my luck. Neither could the neighbors. I heard one of them laughing with glee over her double-dipped waffle cone.

"Uh, Mom, aren't you going to…?" my son said, pointing to my pants, which were still around my knees.

Hastily, I pulled up my pants, and headed back for the house with my happy ending, my son, a bucket full of berries, a baby praying mantis, and flushed cheeks. It had been an amazing day, and it was time to sit down on my un-stung bottom and write about it.

It's funny how something simple like picking berries or writing a children's book can be both an enlightening and humbling experience. Had I not exposed myself in my berry patch that day, I may not have had the unique opportunity to see a baby praying mantis, or the impetus to try writing my first article for an adult audience. My berry patch gave me a new perspective. It reaffirmed some of the things I already knew about myself as a writer, and gave me new insights I hadn't considered before. Most importantly, it provided the opportunity to share a special adventure with my son. (I'm pretty sure he won't forget this day for a long time!)

I'm not suggesting that everyone should try picking raspberries. Nor would I suggest that everyone should try writing for children. Both can be daunting, frustrating, painful, and downright therapy-inducing, as my experience with my son clearly illustrates. However, children's writers who consider these lessons from the berry patch may find their experiences as exhilarating and fruitful as a summer raspberry harvest:

1. Staying put increases productivity. In the writing world, this is also known as the "Butt in Chair" approach.
2. Luck can go a long way in cultivating a dream. But even with luck, success takes nourishment and time.
3. Dream big. Dreams, goals, and big ideas are what keep us moving forward. Strive for them, even if they always seem just beyond your reach.
4. Take risks. Put yourself out there to get yourself in there. Submit, submit, submit yourself to the center of the berry patch to yield the most fruitful harvest.
5. Accept the thorns for what they are. They're rejections, and they hurt. You don't have to like them, but expect them to be there. Prepare yourself. Thick skin is a must. Don't let a few snags - or even a whole patch of them - stop you from moving forward.
6. Every once in a while, let your hair down, or your pants, for that matter. When you expose yourself, you change your perspective. You may be surprised to discover something new about yourself as a writer. In writing, this may mean trying a new genre or point of view, joining a critique group, or exploring a new technique.
7. Rejoice in the sweet reward of sharing adventures with children - every sweet, juicy moment - whether in a book or in the berry patch.