Mary wore her red, Ben wore his blue jeans, and I fell in love. There was magic sandwiched between the vinyl coated covers of my first grade Houghton-Mifflin reader. For the first time letters came together in a way that made sense. I could look at a word and know what it meant. I could pick up a book and read it myself. I no longer had to wait for my parents to read to me. I was liberated. Henry Huggins answered my call. Sure, Beverly Cleary was a little above my reading level, but nothing was going to stop me. I had the reading bug and I had it bad.
That was 7,097 days ago, near as I can figure. 7,097 days ago that I learned to read, and 7,097 days ago that I decided I to write. Were I serious in my desire, I would have taken time each and every day to write. I have not. In fact, I have spent so much time not writing that I am now an expert on the subject. Counting any writing as experience, and taking into account schoolwork, I have wasted 4,843 days of my life. Granted, these numbers are only rough estimates, but they cannot be too far off the mark.
What will follow is an attempt to atone for my sins. An attempt to make up for 4,843 days of lost time. Fiction and non-fiction, truth and lies, I will be telling it all. So, bookmark this page, check back often and enjoy my life, or something like it.
