I have a slight obsession with owls. I collect all kinds of stuff with owls on them: jewelry, mugs, plush toys, you name it. I started the collection about five years ago. Now, owls litter my bedroom. Each holiday, I can count on receiving a few presents that are in some way owl-related. I once arrived in L.A. for an SCBWI conference wearing an owl print dress, toting an owl purse, and decked out in various pieces of owl jewelry—only to meet up with my critique partner in our shared hotel room and say, before anything else, “Yeah, the owl thing’s kind of gotten out of control.”

Some random pieces in my collection. (Sadly, these are not the only owl plush toys I own.)

Owls resonate with me for a lot of reasons. In Western culture, they have a connection to the Greek goddess Athena—and to wisdom and scholarly pursuits in general. In folklore, they have darker associations, with vampires and witches and a shape-shifting creature called a strix (which features in my latest manuscript). Plus, Harry Potter is cool. And stuff.

Honestly, though, the main reason for my obsession is personal. In January 2009, I went through something of a creative crisis. (That might be an understatement.) I had just completed my first full-length original novel, seven years in the making. A week later, I learned it was pretty much unsalable—not because it needed editing, but because someone else had just published a novel with the exact same premise (and the same major plot twist). I didn’t want to change the story entirely, so I shelved it instead. At the time, I didn’t have any more ideas. I seriously considered giving up.

Then inspiration hit, and I was writing again. (Note to writers: It’s devastating to have to shelve a novel that you love. But it also frees up your brain to think of new, better ideas.) I was up late, night after night, drafting a new manuscript that excited me. And on many of those nights, I heard an owl hoot outside my window. As time went on, I came to think of him as my late-night companion. I felt a kinship with this fellow “night owl” who sat in a tree and talked to himself for hours, alone in the darkness. (Pretty much how it feels to draft a novel.)

I heard this owl many times over the next few years. I learned he was a great horned owl, based on the cadence and tenor of his hooting. My sister even caught a glimpse of him flying over our backyard once.

This summer, I moved to a new house. I was sad to leave my owl friend behind, the companion who had stayed up with me during so many late-night writing sessions. Then a week after we moved in, my family mentioned they had seen an owl perched on the gate of our new house. And a month ago, I heard it for the first time: the hoot of a great horned owl outside my bedroom.

I guess you could say I think of owls as kindred spirits. I collect owl stuff as a tribute to my late-night buddy—and as a reminder to keep creating. Because even when the world is dark, and you’re alone, you can still work to achieve your goals, and do something that really matters to you.

And maybe you’ll find some friends in the process, feathered or otherwise.