It is astonishing how little one feels alone when one loves

Ink on paper is as beautiful to me as flowers on the mountains; God composes, why shouldn't we? ~Audra Foveo-Alba

And in my infinite wisdom, I accidentally deleted my tagboard in my overhaulling of my layout haste( too weird looking, this new one, too boring? comment and let me know?), and I am too sleepy to get another one so that will have to wait. I have enabled anyone to comment on my comments tho, so you really dont need to sign in anymore or look for a tagboard to comment, should you wish to.

I've always loved to read.

I am four, and I've just learned to read. Sure, I can't pronounce the words right and I my handwriting is already showing signs of its future atrociousness but I know then there's something about books that captivate me.

I am eight, and I've graduated to my dad's Reader's Digest collection, stretching back to the 1970s. I pore over the stories, and when my brain starts to hurt from too much information, I reach for my Archies. Betty and Veronica never failed me in their familiar simple struggle over Archie.

I am ten, and I have discovered Sweet Valley, Enid Blyton and Nancy Drew, and I insist that my primary school start a library, of which I help set up. I spend hours there and when the books are over, I wonder perhaps if we could get more. It has only been a week, my teacher in charge
informs me wryly, and I really should stop this speed reading.

Tentatively, hesitatingly, I start, not for school, not for anyone, but for me, to write.

I win awards for my writing.

I am twelve, and I have discovered Chronicles of Narnia, Harry Potter, Animorphs,Lord of The Rings, Anne Frank. I am lost in new worlds.

I am pulled by the power of the written word.

I discover the Internet and my writing finds an entirely new audience, even in 2001.

Being a pompous thing, I start to write my own book.

I am seventeen and have put my books away.

I am eighteen and rediscover books through Maeve Binchy and Jane Green, amongst others. I wonder how I could have forgotten about books, and regret the year lost.

I am twenty one.

And I have looked through old boxes. I have found remains of that book the twelve year old me started writing, and I have read it, and am astonished to realise how even written at twelve and being only three chapters long, it is not bad. Sure, I somehow mispelled some words here and there, and my grammar could be better.

But the notes are there, the idea is there and I have a vague idea how I wanted to 'finish' it.

It is not bad at all and I wonder if I should dare dream to ever finish it, or really, if it should remain entirely that. Nothing but a dream.