As a child I loved books, and they opened many doors for me.
I grew up on a tobacco and cotton farm and my daddy wanted more for me, so he bought me some Childcraft books and Encyclopedias. They took me to a place that was beyond anything I could imagine.
I started writing stories when I was six years old and as primitive as my stories were, they made me want more. I loved to write and read books and I had lots of time to craft my art. Nothing I did stopped me from finding time to write.
Many years later, here I sit writing this story knowing over the years I have lost time and I struggle to find the time to unleash the words within me. My dog Buddy and I spend a lot of time on the back roads. Buddy is quite the philosopher, and poet and he laughs because dogs can’t write but indeed, they can tell stories.
Perhaps I will find time, and I wonder if my writer friends have the same struggle getting words to paper.
I guess for now Buddy and will walk a bit farther down the dirt road and add a few more stories that might not ever touch paper.
Well then night comes, and I am sure I will burn the candle until late into the night and possibly write a new story or finish an old one.
The writers, poets, artists, and storytellers are the givers of the stories, they write our dreams, our hopes, and the words find a way to become books and maybe people will come to love them.
