The Writers Journey

How It Begin 

 I knew I wanted to be a story teller when I was a child. See once upon a time there was a library in an old stone building downtown. Stone steps lead to a large doorway where the children's area was. It was like a dungeon, a castle. Inside the walls were gray stone lined with shelves. The shelves were filled with books upon books upon books. Old glass windows--the kind that were rippled--let in light. When it rained the room smelled like water. I discovered dragons, unicorns, dinosaurs, and magic in this room. The feel of the pages, the words, the pictures, all called to me. 

My mother encouraged our imaginations by reading out loud to us, drawing pictures and making up stories. She would play the piano and tell us the light higher notes were a fairy princess trapped in a castle trying to get out. The deeper notes were a monster climbing the stairs and searching for her.

Hmm ... and she didn't want me telling my siblings scary stories?

To keep my sister Ami from coming downstairs, I told her about a monster called the Gooblesnork that ate little children under the age of eight who went to the basement after six. I told her she was safe with Julie, Jennie or I, but not on her own and pointed to a stain on the ceiling of the storage room. "Do you see that?" I asked. When she nodded I said, "That was the sister between you and Jennie. She came downstairs and the Gooblesnork ate her. All that's left is the stain." 

Ami wouldn't come down unless the light was on and someone else was already there.

My youngest siblings, Jack and Gypsy begged me to tell them stories. I made one up about cats from outer space that would peer into the windows at night with glowing green eyes and scan for children they could carry back to their space ships. I told them about a bear in Kolob that killed two college students and was still roaming the woods. My mother was not impressed, "If you tell them one more scary story that keeps them up at night, I'm going to wake you up and have you sit with them."

To this day neither of them want to be in the woods where bears are known to roam.

Stories, books, words. 

I have always wanted to be a writer. I may not be as great as Hemingway, or Fitzgerald, or Stephen King. I may not be a best seller, but ... then again ... as long as I keep writing, keep improving, learning and exploring, who knows just where words may take me.