Words have always been something of a magic carpet for me. Once I learned how to read, I would devour them whole as they swept me away to distant lands. Words stirred my imagination and made me believe that the impossible was just a hop, skip and jump away. They made me sore high and dive low, exploring depths of emotions that I didn’t previously know I had. From an early age, words helped me define who I was.
Puberty came blowing through like an unforgiving wind and yet again, words came to my rescue. They poured out of me in a violent torrent and emptied me of all my teenage angst. (Chester Bennington helped with that too as I screamed along to his songs. Rest In Peace. You played a very important role in a lot of our lives.)
Now here I am, all grown up (although I don’t particularly feel cooked all the way through) and again I turn to my magic portion as I strive to eat life with a big spoon. What I am trying to say is that the written word is how I best communicate with the world around me and for that, I am proud to call myself a writer.