I once wrote an epiphany poem called “Why I Write”. It was about a sudden realization that if I couldn’t paint with brushes, I could paint with words. I described the joy I felt at having an outlet for my creativity while my brushes were on hold. I talked about painting the scenery around me, the people I saw and the things they did. It turned me into a watcher and a listener, constantly picking up on bits of dialogue and characters that caught my eye.
The more that I write, and the more that I read, the reasons for writing have turned more outward. Reading has been such a big part of my world for so long. I can’t imagine a world without books. I can’t imagine a child not wanting to hear a story. I want to be a part of lighting up a young person’s imagination. I want to inspire a child to want to learn more, to do more, to be more. Can books do that? They did for me.