A Little Prehistory

I owe it all to my mom, really. She's a librarian. She retired this past November, but in some ways librarians are like Marines; once a librarian, always a librarian. Some of my fondest memories of spending time with Mom are of reading together before bedtime. Sometimes she would read to me; sometimes I would read to her. It was great together-time. (By the way, I don't care how old you are, you need to read "The Pushcart War" if you haven't already. It was our all-time favorite.)

I learned to read when I was three years old. I've always been fascinated by words, and the fact that they could be captured by these markings on a page seemed like magic. I still remember the first book I read by myself, "The Wolf and the Seven Kids". It was during free time in preschool one day. Surprised the hell out of the teacher - I still remember the look on her face when I walked up to her afterwards, held up the book, and said, "I read this."

Sometime in the next year, I learned that books were written by people. I think this again was thanks to my mom. Before that, I'd assumed books were just there, like trees and cars and people. To find that people created books was like being struck by a lightning bolt.

Close upon the heels of that epiphany came the realization that I was one of those people who created books. Brimming with the certain knowledge of my destiny, I ran into the kitchen. "Mom," I said, my voice urgent. "I know what God wants me to do when I grow up." (My notions of God were a lot more clear-cut at age four.)

Mom looked surprised, then tolerant, as adults often do when kids make their life-changing discoveries.

"What's that, honey?"

"He wants me to be a writer."

She half-suppressed a smile. "Oh! Okay, honey."

"I know it, Mom. That's why I'm here," I insisted.

"Okay, Ann. Be a writer."