Words and books have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. It would be a nice summer day, and I’d be inside reading a book even as a kid. I can remember obsessively reading the back of the cereal box every morning at breakfast when I was in grade school. I’m sure Mother thought she was raising the weirdest kid ever. And let’s not forget how satisfying it was to hear my pen scribbling across the page. I worked on my penmanship, wanting it to be beautiful. I remember copying parts of my favorite books—wishing I had been the one to come up with those words.
In my early years I wanted nothing more than to hold a book in my hands and have the name of the author be mine. Life, though, tends to ignore whatever plans you make as a youngster. I kept writing anyway. Extra money went for paper and pens. I love the way a well-crafted pen has that perfect balance and weight. My friends would put their name on the list to be the one to read my stuff next. They said it was good. And my friends wouldn’t lie to me. Would they??? Nevertheless, I kept on writing.
I can’t help myself. This thing is an addiction. This writing thing. My only hope is that my addiction will produce something that will entertain you.
Thank you all for your support. It allows me to further indulge in my passion.