In the early days, I wrote inside my favorite books, mimicry being my sincerest form of admiration for the masterpieces I loved, Seuss and Silverstein and Sesame Street. It was a curious kind of magic, that the symbols were letters and the letters were words and the words were sentences and the sentences were stories that were captured in pages and came to life in my mind. I have never gotten over it. I am compelled to write out of sheer curiosity. How do I make the things I see in my mind come to life on a page for someone else? I am still exploring the answer to that question. I will spend my life doing that.
(I finished my sample chapter of my book this weekend. The proposal outline is almost done, and mom’s sample chapter is edited. This dream of mine gets a little more real every day.)