A love affair with words

Everyone has heard the old question, "What would you take with you if you were going to be stranded on a desert island?" Impractical though it may be, I want my books - preferably all of them. And some pens and paper on which to record all my musings.

Not sensible, I know, but I have a love affair with words that goes a long way back. Right back to when I was four years old and realized that those symbols on the page were the words of my beloved stories. I remember the exact moment when it clicked into place. I was sitting with my Dad in our dining room and he was reading me "Tom and Jerry's Merry Christmas." Like a fuzzy photograph coming into focus, I suddenly knew what he was going to say before he said it, because I could read those words. From that time on, no words were safe from me. I read everything I could get my hands on.

Many weekends would find my family strolling the local mall. Inevitably, Dad and I would end up in a bookstore. It was always a special treat to be allowed to pick out a new book or two. Mom would usually have to tell me, "Put that book down and do your homework." I was the nerdy kid who actually *liked* reading those various classics we were assigned in English class.

In college I discovered that the library was the worst place for me to study - unless I needed to do research all those books were too distracting. And I had to be careful while researching. Many research sessions would find me dabbling in the books on either side of the ones I needed, or investigating other topics that caught my eye.

I have always read voraciously, though my genre preference changes with my mood. My constant favorites are romance, sci-fi/fantasy, and inspirational. I'm also a recovering self-help book addict. Recently I've made forays into mystery (my Mom's favorite) and techno thrillers (one of my husband's favorites). Now that Google is available I also find myself fascinated by all the topics I can research from the comfort of my computer chair.

Somewhere along the line, probably while checking out various career self-help books I read that many voracious readers are actually writers in disguise (don't remember which book, wish I did). That intrigued me greatly. At first I thought to myself, "Pardon me? I think if I were a writer I would know it by now." I certainly did not have any unfinished novels sitting around the house.

I mentally filed away the comment and went about my life. A funny thing has recently happened, however. I am home with just my children most of the day now, and my body is busy with tasks that don't require mental gymnastics. I find all sorts of thoughts, ideas, and musings leaking out of the corners of my mind as I stand and sort laundry or load the dishwasher. Bits and pieces of information are coalescing into a coherent whole. I remember my lifelong habit of journaling, the creative writing assignments I actually liked in school. I remembered my friends' envy of my ability to write my papers the night before they were due and get an A most every time. I thought of the long letters I wrote that were practically novelettes. My favorite way to pray is to write in my prayer journal, and I have always written down my vivid dreams, both good and bad.

I began to reconsider that perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps earlier in my life there were so many things I *had* to write that I had no desire to do more. As an experiment, I bought a really nice blank book to catch some of the musings floating around my head.

The floodgates opened....