When I was little, I was the girl in the park with her nose stuck in a book. I carried them with me everywhere and found every occasion I could to break the binding and get lost for a while between the ink and vanilla-scented pages. It always struck me as a kind of magic, the way writers could manipulate 26 little letters in such a way that it was like a movie playing out in my head. I could see the setting as vividly as if I was standing there, the characters as real as if they were standing before me. I would laugh and cry and sit on the edge of my seat all because of a writer and the way she wielded 26 little letters like a paintbrush.
That love of reading turned into a love of writing, and somewhere along the way, I went from being the girl lost in a book to the woman writing them.