Why write? I guess I’ve always had some voice inside my head that sounded more like a narrator than a muse. Eager to learn and experience life from the very beginning I began having adventures that turned like pages in a Robert Louis Stevenson novel. When I was three I led a group of neighborhood friends, Charlie Broshoe, Pamela Wiley, and my little brother Ricky down to the River’s edge and tried to cross a swinging bridge with broken and missing slats. I can still hear the water twenty feet below my bare feet slashing the jagged rocks, and my mother’s frantic voice begging me to come back and to be careful. I didn’t start writing until I was seven and possessed a sufficient knowledge, albeit barely, of the writing process and a vocabulary built on the classic children’s novels that my grammy took me to the library every Saturday morning to read: Kidnapped,  Treasure Island, Doctor Doolittle,  Tarzan of the Apes, Little Women, The Secret Garden, A Tale Of Two Cities, David Copperfield,  and many more. My appetite for books became an obsession until the visual arts began intruding; movies and television began to get interesting. I went to the theater every chance I could but after a while it was not so much less satisfying than a different kind of pleasure,  there was something missing: the written word, alliteration,  the voice of the author–different from mine–that shared her most intimate thoughts with me, making me laugh, cry, and sometimes blush as though the author had inserted me into her book. I began reading again this time from a teen-agers perspective and with her intetests. I read the Godfather,  Love Story, Jaws, and The House of Usher; The Prince and the Pauper, The Time Machine,  For Whom The Bell Tolls, A Farewell to Arms, and The Great Gatsby.  I still saw movies but I read too and my world expanded rapidly, and I wrote.  The first time I locked myself in a room for three days I realized writing was dangerous, my spouse,  my children all thought I had gone mad. It felt like insanity. I knew I had to control it like an addiction and keep it locked inside until the time was right or it would consume me. It drove me madder. In order to satisfy it, I had to keep moving. I became a workaholic, played harder, jumped from one adventure to another, building experience to add to my depth of writing ideas, and knowledge.  Then came the time at its own choosing, I found myself alone, I wrote. Why write? I wanted to leave a mark on the world, something not just so my children remember me, but know who I am.

I am Fyrecurl.


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