I think I was born with a book in my hands.
Once I met Dick, Jane and Spot, and learned how to control that magical superpower – reading – there was no stopping me.
I flew dragons on Pern, rode sandworms across the vast deserts of Dune, and sailed the oceans aboard a pink sea snail.
I battled a White Witch in Narnia and pirates in Neverland. I chased a mad hatter through Wonderland, and escaped down a maze of warrens in Watership Down.
Through my books, I broke barriers of space and time. There was no where or no when that I couldn’t go. While deep inside these stories, I was transformed and transported. I cried at the end of a book, not because the tale was sad, but because I missed the characters. They were my childhood friends.
When it came time for me to decide what to do when I grew up, I chose storytelling. For years, my profession was reporting on daily life in a small town. There were no witches or pirates, but there were murderers and drug dealers. There were no talking animals, but there were artists and musicians.
When my stories come to an end, I’m not sad, because I know I can return to these characters whenever I want. If I’m lonely, I find solace in the words of my family. The writers and storytellers I’ve met through communities like Trifecta.
Trifecta is closing its doors at the end of this month. It is with great trepidation that I see it go. During the years that I’ve joined in the writing challenges, I’ve met wizards, pirates, witches (of all hues of the rainbow), artists and musicians, murderers and drug addicts, talking animals, powerful women and mad men.
And I am all the better for it.