Pictures of Hollis Woods

Every child has a private language, a way of making sense of a world that often feels too big or too broken. For some, it’s a secret world built in the backyard. For others, it’s a silent conversation with a beloved pet. For Hollis Woods, it’s a sketchbook. Each drawing is a single, captured moment, a frozen frame from the confusing movie of her life. One picture might show the sharp, angry lines of a door slamming shut, a memory of another family she had to leave. Another might be a soft, hopeful sketch of a warm slice of cake, a memory of a place that almost felt like home. These pictures are evidence. They are the only reliable story of a girl who has been told so many different stories about herself—that she’s difficult, a mountain of trouble, a runaway.

But what happens when the pictures start to contradict each other? A drawing of a happy memory—a fishing trip with a man who could have been her father—is followed by a sketch of his angry, confused face. A picture of a woman’s gentle hands is followed by an image of an empty room. For Hollis, her sketchbook is a courtroom where she is both the witness and the judge, trying to piece together the truth of her past, trying to decide if she deserves a future. The pictures are her only way of asking the question she can’t speak aloud: Where do I belong?

This deep understanding of a child’s inner world, where memory and art become tools for survival, comes from Patricia Reilly Giff’s own life. Before she was a celebrated author, Giff spent twenty years as a reading teacher. She saw firsthand the quiet struggles of children who felt lost or overlooked, the ones who couldn't always find the words to explain their hurt or their hope. She noticed how they often used other means—a drawing, a gesture, a fiercely protected story—to communicate what was most important. Giff began writing books to give a voice to these children, creating characters like Hollis Woods from the real, unspoken stories she witnessed in her classroom every day.

Module 1: Art as a Language for the Unspoken

The story opens with Hollis Woods, a twelve-year-old girl with a reputation. She’s a "mountain of trouble," bouncing between foster homes. But Hollis has a secret language. It’s the language of drawing. Art is a tool to process the world when words fail. For Hollis, a pencil and paper are for survival. When she’s frustrated with a social worker, she draws the woman with a sour lemon face. Then she takes the picture outside and throws rocks at it. This is a way of taking a powerless feeling and giving it a physical form she can control. It's a coping mechanism, turning emotional chaos into a creative act.

This brings us to a key insight. Your unique way of seeing the world is your greatest asset. Hollis sees everything through an artist's eye. When she first meets Josie, an eccentric elderly woman, her first instinct is to visualize drawing her face. Art is her lens. It’s how she interprets people and situations. A retired art teacher named Beatrice later validates this. She tells Hollis that drawing is about what you truly see of the world. It’s a language that reveals deep, personal truths. For professionals, this is a powerful reminder. Your unique perspective—whether you're an engineer, a designer, or a strategist—is the filter through which you find novel solutions. The way you see the problem is the first step to solving it.

And here's the thing. Art preserves what is most important to us. Hollis’s drawings are a curated collection of her most important memories. She draws the Regan family, a foster family she briefly felt at home with. She draws them fishing, laughing, and sharing moments of connection. These pictures are her anchors. They are tangible proof that she once belonged somewhere. She tries to draw Steven, the Regan's son, over and over from memory. She can't quite get him right, but the act of trying keeps the connection alive. This practice allows her to hold onto moments of joy and belonging, even when her present is filled with uncertainty. It’s a way of building an internal gallery of strength to draw upon when things get tough.