be reassessed and re-written so they can move two steps forward. It is endlessly depressing and makes me realise yet again why the writing of picture books is so detestable. Who in their right minds would put themselves through this if they could avoid it?' At that point in my life I went overseas to work, and then to attend the third wedding of my middle sister in Italy. The holiday was a circuit-breaker. By the time I got back home in late July I had begun to suspect that the Green Sheep story was beyond resurrection. This was confirmed when I saw it afresh with all its faults and imperfections. 'I couldn't have written this,' I said to myself. 'I'm Mem Fox.' But the story was indeed mine. And it was indeed dead. Unbeknown to me however, there was still a tiny breath of life left in the poor old Green Sheep. It must have gasped every so often in my filing cabinet, in its struggle to keep hope and itself alive. In late August 2002, the day after I had given a presentation on the need for rhyme, rhythm and repetition in the books for babies, I was in the shower, late as usual, thinking about my work as usual, and what I had said the day before. I remembered the joy my husband and I had had reading Dr Seuss books to our daughter Chlo, and how she had learnt to read at four and half without