I remember the exact moment I learned to read. Suddenly the letters m-a-n were not letters, they were a Word! My first grade teacher, Miss Donnelly, turned and looked at me. I must have made some sound. She smiled as big as I ever saw her smile. My guess is her smile was mirroring mine. I could not wait to run home for lunch and tell Mom. Even then, at five years old, I knew my life began that day.
Not long after that sun-lighting moment, I wrote my first book, eight small pages bound in red yarn. Not many words, but they were Words. I still remember my heart-swelling pride in that book, 64 years later. I created That, and That is Good.
Creating That is better than Good, I learned over the years. Embodying emotion, giving permanence to thought, sharing revelations are all acts of love, deep and primal. Love of others, love of life.
Alas, in this life, those sparks of creative wordsmithing have been too rare, as I floundered through the bog of teens and twenties, desperately seeking solid ground. A poem here, a short story there, essays on whatever thought was handy when words could not be denied outpouring. Agonizing, teasing, malicious Muse dancing just beyond my reach.
So life did what life does: gave joy of wife and children, against sorrows of failures and consequences; triumphant moments, and mind-numbing slog. Life stole time, as life does from anyone who does not steal time from life first. And the Words waited, always glittering.
Now, now after so many years, the urge is grown beyond containment. The long-stifled dream of publishing, of writing and publishing, is burst its bounds. An archaic construction, that: “is burst its bounds,” but oh, so apt.
I hope you will enjoy the journey with me, and gain from it what I can offer, for that is the purpose of the journey.