Interview

Following the commencement of first-grade, I was rapidly taken with the idea that, if I could indeed now read books, I could write books, too, just like grown-ups. My parents said I was mature for my age, so maybe I could even write something worthy of a spot in the library.

Ruminating on the idea for barely milliseconds, I snatched an abundant pile of printing-paper and ran up to my grandmother's house. Dropping my materials on her chest of drawers, I explained my plan. I was going to write a book. Fueling my ambitions with gumdrops and a music box, she left me to my mission.

Now, I admit now that my first attempt availed to little success. After designing the title page, christening the manuscript "My Cat", I quickly realized that one needs many words to fill a page. Not only was I restricted by my limited vocabulary, I also couldn't figure out how to force my large, sluggish letters to stand up and run properly in an up-and-down fashion. After a few lines of "My cat ran and sat on the mat," (I take no credit for the originality of the idea) I placed down my page to "finish later" and climbed into bed with my grandmother for a treat of more gumdrops and a new episode of "Sofia the First".

I never made any more progress on the book, nor the ones immediately proceeding it, but the utopian dream of having my own spot on the library shelf wasn't disposed of as quickly.

As I transitioned from early readers to chapter books and then from chapter books to classic novels, I found a beauty in language itself. While, momentarily, the fairytale aspect of writing forsook me, I learned to love writing not as a means of telling stories but one of using words. For a while, using the words was enough, but soon I found a peace and friendship with the pages that once held my ambitions.

How does one explain the joy of finding words and commanding them to their desired arrangements? Many sing songs and can vividly express how sound mends their soul but never, or very rarely, does one tell of how the sound of words rolling around one's head and life and walk calms as if it truly were a symphony. As I rule over my arsenal of consonants and vowels, I found the gift of language which continued as my companion for the rest of my childhood.

With the passing of many years, I've lost much of the desire to write a book fit solely for the library. The library shelves are filled with many novels and, when their spotlight burns low, they are cast away or sold. My ambitions, in finding a solid burial grounds, settled for the stable abode of poetry, which I knew could be neither burned nor sold nor ever forgotten even if effort was taken to forget it. I know that few will ever read my castles of sound but, should they stumble across the ruins of my metropolis, I know that the sounds won't ever be cast out. They will be left to spin around the reader's mind, in delightful penetration of his thoughts, in a way that "My Cat" never could. Maybe, when I am gone, some sounds will remain singing still.