I was the little girl buried in the sea of stuffed animals and blankets, surrounded by piles of books, with my trusty flashlight in hand. I would read by the fading daylight and passing street lamps from the back seat of the minivan. Any moment of downtime was an opportunity to immerse myself in the adventures of my favored, daring kid-detective; in the stories of a both who grew up wheelchair-bound on Mars; in epic quests, and battles with dragons.

I could close my eyes and see these characters, these flesh-and-blood people, fulfilling their destinies; I would share in their triumphs and struggles. The words and phrases, the truths in these stories became mine, no longer bound to the books I found them in. Wild games of imagination played behind my eyelids at night as their stories continued, my lashes fluttering with the barely contained excitement at finally being a part of something big, something new.

These are the stories I want to write. The who and the what, I don’t know yet, and hardly the when and the where, but the how is to be emotional and most full of feeling.


2 thoughts on “Stories

  1. pam stanek says:

    Lucky you to have that early interaction with, and love of, reading. I spent my early years swooning over Roy Rogers comic books and wishing I would someday be a cowboy. My wish did not come true, by the way.

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