“Read me a story.”
More than anything, my life has been marked by stories, either reading them or writing them.
Some of my earliest memories with my dad are of listening to him read the Sunday comics to me after church. I would sit on his lap and he’d let me pick the comics for him to read while Mom finished preparing our dinner. I remember Mom snuggled next to me, reading a book to me before nap time. When I was older, I’d lay on the living room sofa with my nose in a biography for hours on hot summer days or long winter Friday nights. I was as much fascinated by the person’s story as by how the writer told it. Continue reading