“Among the many problems which beset the novelist, not the least weighty is the choice of the moment at which to begin his novel.”

Vita Sackville-West

As a child, I had such fervor for writing. Every moment was ripe with inspiration, every detail shoved into a pocket by grubby little hands to write down for later. I owe much of this to my upbringing; my grandmother had an unbelievable impact on the earlier years of my life, as she cared after me while my mother worked. She had a passion for literature which she bestowed upon me with adamant pressure. She has scrapbooks of pages covered with my infant scribbles, telling me that it was simply me creating a story before I knew about words.

As I got older, and with the introduction of personalized technology, the want to create flittered through my fingers. I could no longer see stories hidden in sidewalk cracks or milk cartons. With this rush of worldly information sitting in my hands, I was wholly enveloped with the pleasure of literature I did not have to create.

I wish more than anything that I had the time, or the juvenile imagination, to create stories as passionately as I had in my earlier youth. There is a mourning of the art that could have been created.

For now,

G.D.